


The Hunt

by bubble_bones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, Slow Burn, Some Fluff, Some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 13:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 103,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17122238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubble_bones/pseuds/bubble_bones
Summary: Keepers of Dalish clans hold as much history and knowledge from the ancient, fallen Empire of Elvhenan as they can. Their Firsts, and Seconds if they have them, are to be the receivers of this knowledge upon the handing over of the mantle of Keeper. Ariwyn is the First to Keeper Deshanna of Clan Lavellan, and her favourite stories have always been on that of Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf, trickster god of the Evanuris. The fables warn those left of the People to always be wary of Fen'Harel, to keep their minds guarded and their ears turned from his call. She knows the story better than most. Yet, clans claim their people lose their way. She expects herself able to know the way to avoid the song of Fen'Harel.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's good to be back in the Dragon Age fandom. I promise this story will go on longer than one chapter this time because now I'm invested.

There are stories among the Dalish; tales of Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf. Survivors of thousands of years, from the days of Arlathan and the great empire of Elvhenan. Whispered at night, around crackling campfires, children of the clans huddled around their Keepers as the hunters watch and listen, remembering the fear in their bones afresh. One child, perched before Keeper Deshanna with wide, wide eyes and stricken with curious fear, was to one day become her First. Terrified but determined to fulfil her duty, the child listens, and listens, struggling to commit the details of the story to memory. Some are possibly embellished, or had their inception in the hand-me-down tradition of Elvhenan.  _ Surely the Dread Wolf didn't possess six eyes _ , the child thinks,  _ could he not see with two? _

 

The Keeper tells of young, foolish elvhen to be tricked and seduced by the Wolf's cursed charm. He would lure them from their beautiful homes, their grand cities - "Fools, for giving up such luxuries so easily," a hunter whispers to another behind her - and enchant them, for them never to be seen again. Deshanna draws her finger across the brows of the children encircled around her.

"Perhaps Fen'Harel devoured them," she whispers, and grins in delight at the shock on their little faces, "And you, my little ones, must not be devoured." 

 

A boy beside her leaps to his feet. "I'll kill Fen'Harel!" he proclaims, his tongue slipping over unlearnt elvish. A handful of the hunters laugh.

 

Deshanna pats his head, and he sits. "You cannot kill the Dread Wolf." she tells him, a wry smile on her face. "He is a god of trickery, deception; he is like a spirit that cannot be touched. The only thing we can do is be vigilant; he cannot steal you away from us if we are wary."

 

Many other Dalish clans tell the same tales. Most did not believe, and missing they went, one by one, the Keeper tells. Some believed, and were not cautious enough- missing too they became. That is why we cannot forget, the Keeper would always say.

 

A hunter comes barrelling through the groups surrounding the campfire. "Enough," he huffs, red-faced; his vallaslin are barely visible against it. "Have we not agreed to stop telling this foolish tales?"

The child turns in place, her brows drawn tight. "But Father," she murmurs, "We must know the dangers. The Dread Wolf will steal us away otherwise."

 

"Nonsense!" her father pushes through once more, barely avoiding stomping his feet on the children. His hand reaches forth and grasps her arm. "I will not have my child being fed this drivel. It was the shemlen, not a myth!  _ Shemlen _ !"

 

With that, he pulls hard, and lifts her from the group. She stumbles after him, and he says nothing. The hunters he pushed past have stayed parted; he shoves past their shoulders regardless as he goes. When he finally stops in his charge, he heaves her up from the ground as if she were merely a feather, and tucks her into the aravel beside him. He says nothing, and goes.

 

She watches him go; he disappears away from the camp, into the darkness of the forest beyond. After a while, she can't see him. From here, she cannot hear the Keeper's voice, either. Quietly, she settles to sleep, and huffs a stray stand of chestnut hair back from her face. Her father often takes her away from stories of Fen'Harel when he can; he distrusts the tales as much as one is supposed to distrust the Wolf. She doesn't have a mother. She did once, but she has a face she can scarcely remember- she was too young. That's what they said about her mother, too; too young to be taken from the clan. One morning, they had woken and she was gone, her bedding disrupted in the night. They had camped too close to a shemlen town, her father had decided, and was ready to charge it to demand where they have enslaved his wife. Keeper Deshanna determined it too risky, and they fled, instead. 

 

She thinks her father had been tempted to stay, in that human town. He probably would have, to find his wife, if the Keeper had not have reminded him of his daughter. He stayed. Ariwyn, he named her, when his wife was gone. After her. 

 

The clan behaved as if her mother was dead. As she grew older, and took her vallaslin, she understood why. As she learned with the hunters, the Keeper, listened to her father; shemlen are dangerous, she began to understand. A blight on her people, determined to hurt and steal and kill, dissatisfied with leaving them well alone. If her mother was taken by them, then no one was going to risk getting her back.

 

When she was younger, she hated that her father would take her from the stories of Fen'Harel. Now, an adult in her own right and First to Clan Lavellan, she understands. Indirectly or not, when the Keeper tells that tale she tells of a Wolf that enchanted and seduced her mother away from the clan and stole her away, never to be seen again. Fen'Harel is a story; humans are very, very real. 

Ariwyn glances up from the book in her lap. The aravel is rolling along the rough path under her, the pages rustling every so often from the light breeze. Her father walks beside the halla tugging the waggon; now, his skin is wizened, more and more creases on his face. He is always angry. The anger keeps him going, she thinks. 

 

The clan is looking for somewhere to stay a few nights, maybe even a while. Their last spot had been perfect; nestled between mountains, supported with a natural defence from shelmen around; a river flowing by not far from the entrance to the valley; and plentiful game in the forest beyond. One of the hunters had caught word from a passing shem caravan they had traded with briefly that a group of dwarves planned to mine the valley. Sure enough, after hurrying to escape the valley, hunters surveyed a very large force headed to the valley- they had enough firepower to wipe out the entire clan's defence.

 

When clan Lavellan finally stops for the night, it’s only because the halla are exhausted. The hunters are on edge, wanting to keep going, to find somewhere more secure and permanent. As permanent as they can get, anyway; no place is ever good enough to serve as a home, it’s always too good to be true. 

 

It’s evening when they stop, unleashing the halla and stopping the aravels on a riverbank. At least they have water. The hunters can catch some game if the dry food supplies are lower than expected. Her father leads a small group into the wilderness while the remainder of the clan get more comfortable in their temporary home; the Keeper gathers the few younglings of the clan and wrap them in blankets whilst they wait for a kindly hunter to start a fire. Smiling, Ariwyn pats his shoulder to pull him back, and with a gentle wave of her fingers the kindle lights before them. 

 

The children make a collective sound of awe, clapping and demanding she does it again. It is too dangerous to play with fire here, she insists, so close to the aravels. Instead, small orbs of light of different colours spark from her fingertips, and the children struggle to catch them as they float away, and burst into a small shower of glittery rain. One of them makes a small sound of disgust, as it lands on his cheeks and he realises it feels like sticky dew. 

 

“You will make a fine Keeper one day.” Deshanna says to her, quietly, while the children chase the last, pink orb. 

 

She beams with pride. “I can only hope to be close to you.”

 

The elderly elf laughs, “Your father would disagree.”

 

“My father is a fool.” she blurts, and then slaps a hand to her mouth and looks around, as if he had suddenly returned and overheard her. Then, upon realising he is nowhere around, her brows draw up again. “I hope Fen’Harel shows him he is one.”

 

Deshanna looks appalled. “Do say day that!” she scolds, “Do not ever wish for the Dread Wolf to steal any of our clan, let alone your own father!”

 

Stubbornly, she crosses her arms over her chest, “I did not say that. I merely said maybe he should be shown for the fool he is.”

 

The Keeper huffs. “Ariwyn, as Keeper you protect. You nurture, you guide. Most importantly, you do not wish for Fen’Harel to hunt your people.”

 

Bowing her head, she feels a wash of shame. “You are right, Keeper. I am sorry.”

 

“It is alright, da'len.”

 

A moment passes, and the children ask for more magic. With a flick of her wrist, she conjures a shadowy spectre, in the same of a rabbit; it bounds around the campfire, splashes of green sparks bursting from where its feet hit the ground. With glee, the children chase it. They nearly knock a young hunter off his feet as they rush past an aravel. 

 

“Are you to tell them the story, tonight?” Ariwyn asks, the rabbit following her gaze. 

 

“I was considering it, yes.” the Keeper says, and holds tight to her staff as she settles down onto a box unloaded from the aravel behind her, as a makeshift seat. “Would you perhaps like to tell it?”

 

“Me?” she sounds incredulous, and has to concentrate to keep her eyes on the rabbit to avoid the children losing it. She almost looks back at the Keeper in shock. 

 

“Why not? You can get some practise in for when you are old like me, and your only value is in your frightening bedtime stories.”

 

She laughs along with the Keeper, and nods. The rabbit jumps up and down with it. “Alright then; I would love to. As long as my father stays well away.”

 

“Oh, I have no doubt he will.”

 

The young hunter from before, the one who almost lost his footing from the spectral rabbit and its following of children, approaches. He has somewhat of a bashful smile on his face, from what she can see out of the corner of her eyes. She is still focused on controlling the rabbit. 

 

“Ariwyn?”

 

“Oh,” she blinks, surprised he is addressing her and not the Keeper. The rabbit is sat still, almost caught by the children, when it vanishes completely in a dissipation of green smoke. The children whine, they can hear them from here. 

 

Laughing a little awkwardly, she turns her attention to the hunter. He had a hand curled behind him in an almost uncomfortable manner; as if he is desperate to wind it as far out of sight as possible. The Keeper, sat in a place where she can see both his hands, has a smile on her face. 

 

The hunter looks at her simultaneously uncertain and confident; he looks like a man who has done this both a thousand times, and never. “I found this, and I,” he pauses, averts his gaze, and then back at her, “Well, I thought of you. Its petals are the same beautiful blue as your eyes.”

 

From behind his back, he extends a flower at her, recently plucked, and as soon as she takes it, he stomps away as if he is in a hurry. Utterly confused, she looks at the flower. Sure enough, its pretty, albeit crushed petals are of a lovely sky blue. Her eyes, however, are green. 

 

“I,” she breathes, and looks to the Keeper, brows tight. “Am very confused.”

 

“He likes you.” the elderly woman says with a sly smile. 

 

“I am glad. If I am to become Keeper, the people should like me-“

 

“No, da'len. He  _ likes _ you.”

 

Her mouth makes a small ‘o’ shape, and she is momentarily robbed of words. She doesn’t even know the poor hunter’s name; she suddenly feels very, very silly. Her face feels hot. Really, she is blind. How could she have not put two and two together?

 

Slowly, she lowers the flower to her side, glancing, embarrassed, at the Keeper. "What is his name?"

 

The Keeper barks a laugh. "I believe that young man's name is Seron," she says gently.

 

He's looking at her still, she notices. Across the fire, he's supposed to be lifting supplies down from the aravels; instead, he stands, toes poised and straining a little taller to reach inside, his hands holding onto something inside but his hands aren't moving. His head is turned at a slight angle, his eyes glancing back and forth between the flower in his hand and her eyes. When she notices he's looking, he disappears inside the aravel.

 

"Your father seems to think highly of him, I've heard." the Keeper continues, whilst there is thrashing and the sound of chaos inside the aravel. The curious children try to peer inside. "He is a good hunter. Strong, fast. He can protect you."

 

"I don't need protection." Ariwyn interjects quickly. 

 

Deshanna pats her forearm, holds it for a moment, and lets go. "I know, da'len."

 

Falling silent, Ariwyn takes a seat by the campfire. The Keeper had meant to impress her on the hunter's behalf. Instead, she feels twisted up inside; that he is a good hunter makes her less eager to see where his affections go. She does not want to court someone to please her father. How could she let him down gently? She could tell him the flower was damaged and an insult, and it was the wrong colour. No, that would be harsh. She doesn't need to be mean about it. She could tell him she simply isn't interested, or-

 

She looks up. Seron has finally come out of the aravel, two of the children over his shoulders, the muscles in his back straining the leathers he wears, his bare arms as thick as a hunter's pride. His legs are strong, stance wide, the readiness of a warrior expectant of a fight at any time. No wonder her father is impressed by him; he looks the ideal image of a perfect hunter. He certainly is handsome, too. A strong jaw, soft, dark eyes, skin tanned from working in the sun. He is gentle and playful with the children, too.

 

Seron catches her looking. He smiles, just slightly, and turns his attention back to playing with the young ones around him. They all shout, call to him, "My turn, my turn!" He obliges them all, two by two, laughing with them as they giggle in glee at being lifted to double their height. 

 

"You do not have to decide anything right away, you know." Keeper Deshanna's voice says softly from behind.

 

That is true. But Ariwyn knows; the moment her father hears of the gift, there will be pressure, coercing, encouragement to both sides. She could try to hide it, to delay, to bring her more time. It will do naught though- the Keeper may keep quiet for her, but the rest of the clan who saw will not. She wonders if Seron's choice of timing was purposeful. Probably.

 

Huffing, she draws her knees up to her chest.  _ Fen'Harel ma halam, Seron _ , she thinks playfully in her head.  _ Dread Wolf take you _ .

 

-

 

The fire is dancing ever so slightly in the wind. Ariwyn sits, the Keeper beside her. Around them, the children have gathered; hunters too, back from their scouting. They brought back with them a decent hunt, enough to feed the clan and spare some for later. Her father is nowhere in sight.

 

She feels a swell of pride. The people of the clan surround her, look to her. Their ears are open. She falters a moment, her self-doubt clouding her movement to speak; she knows the story, so well, but what if she does not tell it how they are expecting? What if Keeper Deshanna is a better storyteller? Her eyes gaze towards the fire. A spark of inspiration hits her. Gesturing, she gathers the children around the campfire, instead. They do as she asks, but still look at her, confused, awaiting the tale, expectant.

 

"Our people keep the stories," she begins, soft, her eyes on the fire. When it flickers slightly, the children turn to it, instead. "The stories from the great Arlathan, the most beautiful and grand cities of Elvhenan."

 

The young and adults alike gasp momentarily, as the flames change, their shapes twisting and forging together. Briefly, they take the shape of her imagination; she pictures what she thinks Arlathan to be, bright, sprawling, with golden, gleaming towers piercing the heavens and strong, impenetrable walls to protect the People, and keep out the shemlen. 

 

"The stories tell of many things," Ariwyn continues, as the flames disperse, and begin flowing in their natural pattern. That took a lot more concentration than she was expecting. Perhaps she should have practised- or at least she should only control it only in between saying what she intends. "There were the Evanuris, our powerful and benevolent gods, and their enemies, the twisted and corrupt Forgotten Ones. Among them both ran the trickster, Fen'Harel."

 

Again, the flames shift. For a brief moment, they form a wolf more accurate than she would've thought her mind capable of conjuring. She hasn't, after all, seen too many before the hunters drive them from the camps. It is prowling, hackles raised and teeth bared; it is dark, its shape a shadow amongst the fire. His six eyes glow back ominously at them all. The children scurry back from the fire, alarmed. The hunters chuckle.

 

"Fen'Harel was a powerful, powerful being. The Evanuris trusted him as one of their own, and the Forgotten Ones believed him to be a double agent on their behalf. Instead, he tricked them both. What he promised them both was a compromise. He led them both unwittingly into war."

 

The children watch in awe as hundreds of tiny soldiers clash on a fiery battlefield beneath them, blank banners waving in the wind on the sides of each. One young girl even goes to reach down to poke one of the soldiers, before Keeper Deshanna quickly catches it before she burns herself.

 

"In the chaos, he hunted. One by one, the Forgotten Ones fell by his teeth, his claws. Then, he turned against the Evanuris; they realised only fast enough to lose the mother, the protector, Mythal." she gestures gently to her brow, where the markings of the goddess sit in her skin. "The Dread Wolf tricked them all, and cast a spell so powerful it drove the gods out of the sky. He trapped them in the world of dreams."

 

She thinks it best not to show them this part. When she thinks of dreams, she sees her own, and she would rather not share them. They are not exactly worrying or sensitive, but they are her own. She does not want to let people inside her head, even if they are her clan. 

 

"What happened to the Wolf?" asked one of the children, wide-eyed. 

 

Ariwyn takes her eyes back to the fire. The six eyes of Fen'Harel stare back. "Before the fall of Elvhenan, it was whispered that he would charm weak minds of the People, and lure them from their homes. He would take them, steal them away never to be seen again. Vanished, just like that." 

 

The fire goes out as she waves a hand. The children squeal, and scurry for the hunters, only for them to laugh heartily. Ariwyn flicks her fingers and the embers relight, and eventually, the children resettle. Some of them watch the fire with more caution, now. 

 

"The other clans spread warnings, whispers. They say, that the Dread Wolf himself roams the lands, searching for those of the People left behind with the weakest minds he can find." she learns forward, and gives them an ominous smile. They stiffen. "He prowls and hunts those he can claim. He draws them from their clan, their shelter, and no one ever, ever, hears them go."

 

One of the boys reaches back for a hunter. It is Seron; grinning, he crouches behind the child and puts reassuring hands on his shoulders. He smiles at her and nods in eagerness, as if he was enjoying the telling as much as the children. 

 

"Now, young ones," she says gently, and watches as they all look up at her, expectant, listening closely. "You must always, always be vigilant. Protect yourselves, sharpen your minds, always remain close to the clan. You will grow, and become strong, and the Wolf will no longer be able to sing to you. When you are young, you are vulnerable. That is why we have our strong hunters to keep you safe, and the Keeper to keep you wise."

 

She realises, as she finally tells this tale for herself, that this story is less about Fen'Harel, and more a fable to warn children of the dangers of straying. Strange, she thinks, considering she learned at a young age that it was common sense to remain with the aravels, and not to wander no matter how much she had wanted to explore a grove, or dig deep into a cave to find long lost wonders of another time. She has seen the way some parents in the clan are with their children, however; they encourage an exploration of the wilderness so they may grow accustomed to the life they will live in their adulthood. 

 

Without her father, perhaps she too would have been eaten by the Dread Wolf.   
  



	2. Chapter 2

When she is finished telling the stories, the children are tired. They are put to sleep, cosy and warmer than most of the clansmen; the best blankets are always given to the young ones. She remembers when her beloved blanket was passed onto a newborn when she was twelve. Some hunters linger by the fire, warming their hands, one giving her a wary look and confirming she has stopped tampering with it before they hover their palms above it. Others head out, and find good spots to settle for the first lookout shift. A few retire to bed early.

 

"Did I do as well as you had hoped?" Ariwyn asks sheepishly, settling back on her box-seat to look back at the Keeper beside her. The elder elf grows a smile. 

 

"You did excellently," Deshanna says with an eager nod- as eager as she can get with how weary her bones are, "The children were amazed by the fire trick; some of our fine warriors too." she adds with a chuckle.

 

Pride swells in her chest. Her father wasn't one for praise, so when she had begun to learn under the Keeper, praise was something the Keeper gave readily. It felt almost like she was starved of it when Deshanna said her first, "Well done," but she fought with herself to not grow attached to it. Of a night, when she would return to her father's aravel, she did not want to look too happy. He never is.

 

The Keeper tries to raise to her feet, but the staff in her hand is shaking in the ground slightly. Ariwyn is quick to stand and offer her help, easing her gently up off the box. She wishes she could take the Keeper somewhere more comfortable; her condition is worsening, as of late. She grows weak and feeble, and she knows she finds it difficult to move too far. It makes her nervous- she wants Deshanna around forever, to guide her, to guide them all. She does not want to be Keeper.

 

"Help me to bed, da'len?" she asks softly, and Ariwyn nods. 

 

It is slow, but Ariwyn does not mind. She helps Deshanna to settle in her aravel, wishing there were more blankets to keep her covered with. The Keeper is icy cold to the touch, and if the aravels were not made of wood, she would conjure a fire here. For a while, she sits with her. Ariwyn had never had a mother, though the women of the clan treated all of the children like their own. Deshanna is and has always been the closest to her.

 

Deshanna finally speaks. Her voice sounds weak, fragile, ready to shatter if she talks too loud. "Da'len," she murmurs, and Ariwyn looks to her. "I have been wishing to give you something, and I think you are now ready."

 

There is a note of finality to the Keeper's voice. It frightens her, a lot. Her chest feels full of knots, she almost immediately refuses whatever the Keeper is about to offer. It is not time. It cannot be.

 

Her frail hands reach up from where they rested at her sides. Gently, she tugs at something at her neck. From under her tunic, a pendant rises. Ariwyn almost gasps; it is possibly the prettiest and most wonderful thing she has ever seen amongst the Dalish. For a moment, she wonders why the clan hasn't already traded it with humans, or dwarves. It would surely be worth a lot of gold. Gold they could spend on food, better equipment, rebuilt the aravels, buy a year's worth of food.

 

"This is a treasure to our people," Deshanna begins, and her First helps her to lift her head to pull it from around her neck. She looks at it in her hands, the right way up. "Our people, our clan; we have survived since Elvhenan itself. This is the only true relic we hold, the only real memory. Everything else you know, everything I have taught you- it means nothing, it pales in comparison to this."

 

She feels slightly silly, but she has to ask, "What is it? What does it mean? What does it do?"

 

Deshanna smiles, as if she is speaking to a younger version of her once more, listening to her hundreds of questions on a certain spell, or a part of their long lost culture or history. "It is a symbol of our survival." 

 

That's all? Well, of course that is incredible in its own right, but- she was expecting more. She thought it would be of magical purpose, or some sort of significance in an old ritual in some way or another. Yes, it is a symbol- but what use is a symbol when they have more to worry about? It could do so much for her people to discard it and use it for money. 

 

Then, she thinks, a symbol is more powerful than living a little more comfortably for a little while. 

 

"Da'len." 

 

Ariwyn looks up at her, expectant. She beckons to her; she leans forward, and Deshanna's arms move slowly to trail the silvery chain up, and over her head. When it settles around her neck, it is cold against her skin.

 

"Protect it, as you would protect the clan." Deshanna tells her, smiling, "It is a treasure, just as important as one of the children, or a hunter. Let no one see it. It is your secret to keep safe, da'len."

 

"It is our secret." she presses. Her hand takes Deshanna's. "Stop talking like you're going to disappear."

 

The Keeper chuckles. "I will eventually."

 

It is that inevitability that terrifies her. She is not ready to lead, and she is worried her father would take her weakness as a sign of inability to become Keeper. It is in these times of self doubt she has always relied on Deshanna to offer her encouragement. Now, however, with her as weak and tired as she is, she cannot stress her further than she already is. 

 

Ariwyn sits with her until she falls asleep. She examines the pendant around her neck; it hangs from a striking silver, but strong chain; the pendant itself is shaped almost like a pond, rippling out from the centre in which should have sat a small crystal of some form, she thinks. It dips, and is hollow, the perfect shape for something to be encrusted upon the surface. Yet, there is nothing there. Perhaps it was lost.

 

Strange, she thinks, considering it was supposed to be a treasure to the clan, yet it is handed down and is damaged. 

 

When she checks the Keeper has properly drifted off, she tucks the pendant under her tunic, and climbs down from the aravel. Her feet hit the ground softly, and she cautiously double checks to ensure that the Keeper hasn't woken. It becomes clear that she is still drifting in the Dreaming, and Ariwyn leaves her to rest. She decides to go around the back of the aravel, rather than around the campfire where there will probably still be clansmen gathered. She wishes only to be alone right now; the Keeper has frightened her, but she cannot let it show. 

 

"There you are," a voice calls from before her, but softly, as if conscious of those sleeping around here. At least Seron has manners. 

 

"Hello again." Ariwyn greets, not exceptionally happily but not rudely either. She could just tell him she wishes for solitude, but he would probably guess something was wrong then. 

 

"Did you like the flower?" he asks, a flush coming to his cheeks again. He looks up at her eyes, and something registers, something that makes him pause. 

 

"I did, yes." she nods, though she feels robotic. She's responding on autopilot, she's not focusing. "Though you were wrong when you said it was the same colour as my eyes. My eyes are green."

 

He chuckles, trying to be suave, leaning against the aravel with an elbow, a hand on his hip. "I didn't necessarily mean the petals," he plays off, waving his hand dismissively, "Surely you noticed I meant the stem, and the leaves?"

 

She restrains herself, and does not roll her eyes. "Of course I noticed that," she agrees, "But most do not compliment people by telling them they look like leaves."

 

Seron straightens, and tries again. "I meant the stem. Definitely, because it is strong, and keeps the flower up and out of danger of falling. Like you do with the clan."

 

The First swallows, it's hard. It feels like it's a rock stuck there, hard to swallow down but not stopping her from breathing. "I do not do that. That is Keeper Deshanna's doing."

 

Pointedly, she begins to walk. As swiftly as she can, she walks past him. He doesn't seem to get the hint, and he catches up to her easily, and falls into step beside her. She wonders what he's doing, and what he plans to gain, but he follows her all the way to her father's aravel, and stands beside her wordlessly for a few moments while she waits, and waits, and waits, for him to notice she wants him gone. He does not notice. 

 

"Seron-" she begins.

 

He looks surprised. "You know my name?" he asks, the skin of his cheeks darkening to red once more.

 

"Keeper Deshanna told me of it, yes. After you gave me the flower."

 

She feels a little cruel, speaking so bluntly to him like this. However, right now, she really cannot deal with this- the Keeper has put so much on her in one night, the pressure makes her want to set something on fire, at least so she can relieve some stress. The more he stands around like a lemon, refusing to take the simplest of hints, the more she wants to use him as kindle. 

 

"You gave her a flower?" the question comes in a surprised, but proud tone, one approving of his actions. Of course, her father picks now to return to the clan's camp.

 

Seron looks surprised at his sudden arrival, but hides it well with his beaming pride. He folds his arms behind his back, looking very much like a polite young man- the complete opposite of the strangely arrogant posture he took earlier. Her father looks at him and nods, smiling. He hasn't smiled at her in years. She can't remember the last time he did.

 

"And? What did she say?" he continues, as if she's not there.

 

"I thanked him." she cuts in, as Seron opens his mouth. "I can speak for myself, Father."

 

His smile falters, a little, as he looks at her. Then, he shakes his head, and smiles wider again as he looks back at Seron's slightly-too-wide smile. 

 

"I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunities in the future for more gifts," her father says, almost excitedly, "The first proper courtship in the clan for decades!"

 

"Father, nothing has been decided yet." Ariwyn huffs.

 

Seron looks at her, confused. "You don't decide love," he says, simply.

 

She wonders if he means it. Perhaps he did, a little. Perhaps he did, genuinely care for her in some way, maybe deep down he did feel some love for her that could blossom. Looking at the smiles on both his and her father's faces, however, she believes this planned courtship is for them, not her. Her father has always wanted a son, she has thought. 

 

"Come now, Ariwyn," her father lifts a hand, and clasps it on her shoulder. "This is a chance to be happy, and encourage celebration for the entire clan! Do not worry about it yet, for this is merely the very beginning."

 

How  _ excited _ , she felt. Inside, her mind was numb.

 

Across from her, the young hunter, Seron, looks very pleased. So does her father, each of his hands placed on their shoulders. He is probably imagining their wedding, standing proudly in the crowds, getting one of the best hunters in the clan as his son. She imagines it too; standing rather unhappily beside him as the clan congratulate them, and wish them the best happiness. Her father hugs him, not her. 

 

"I think I'll go stretch my legs." she breaks the silence, shrugging off her father's hand. "Don't wait up for me."

 

"I will come with you." Seron says, a beaming smile on his face.

 

"I'm alright, I can find my way back."

 

Her father shoots her a disapproving look. Huffing, she gives in, and begins towards where the line of the trees gets dark. Maybe she can lose him. Then again, she thinks of the Keeper - she must protect the clan, not leave one to scramble, lost in the dark. If he is as good a hunter as her father thinks, perhaps she can claim it was a test to see how he would handle the situation. No, too obvious.

 

He attempts to make conversation as they walk, through the otherwise deathly silent forest. It is almost eerie, and his talking feels wrong, like his booming voice is invading on the noiselessness of the place. She contemplates asking him to be quiet, so that she can listen for strange sounds, but she supposes her paranoia can be put aside, instead of returning to camp and having her father rip her ear off for telling her soon-to-be partner to silence himself. Seron probably thinks this is romantic. 

 

"Your father is a great man." he says at one point. Highly romantic talk.

 

She agrees, absentmindedly. "Yes."

 

Seron seems to notice, then, that she is not in the mood for talking. It falls silent, as it should be. There are no sounds of animals, she cannot hear the sound of the camp anymore. There is not even wind. 

 

"Something isn't right." she murmurs, feeling suddenly nervous. She was cautious, before, but now the air feels changed. It feels almost like unfamiliar magic. It is around them, it feels heavy. It feels  _ wrong _ . 

 

Seron's brows are drawn together. He surveys the area around them, eyes narrowed. His hand reflexively goes to his bow, drawing an arrow at the same time. "I don't see anything."

 

"Of course you don't, idiot, it's in the air!" she huffs, and it suddenly presses harder, as if trying to make its point to the one who hasn't felt it yet. "It's magic!"

 

"Well I can't fight magic!"

 

Anyone can fight magic, she almost says. Still, it's getting stronger. The air feels tight, it's pushing; it slowly but surely becomes harder to breathe. Thinking quickly, she tosses up a some sort of a barrier around herself. It, for a moment, pushes the unknown force back. The single moment is enough to feel her limbs again, and she scrambles to catch a hold of Seron's armguard. She yanks him after her.

 

"Where are we going?" he shouts, stumbling as his readied arrow points into the mossy earth under his feet. "The camp is back that way!"

 

"I don't know, we just have to go, now!"

 

Eventually, she lets go of him, and he can run on his own. His bow remains poised with an arrow, ready to shoot anything that moves, though it won't do much if their only enemy is an unknown magical force. They run, and run, and eventually, the effect seems to lessen, until it subsides completely. She stops, and leans over to catch her breath. Seron too, but it doesn't take him long to recover- hunter indeed. 

 

"What in Mythal's name was that?" he breathes, looking back the way they came. If she didn't have her back to it, she would have no idea where they ran from. 

 

She takes one more big intake of breath, and straightens, too looking back, as if there is something to see. "I'm not sure," she admits, "Maybe we triggered some magical wards, maybe there was some barrier we didn't see that we crossed."

 

"If there's wards, that means there must be something there to protect, right?" Seron looks at her, a completely serious expression on his face.

 

"We're not going back there just to see if there's treasure."

 

He shrugs. "We're going back that way anyway, we might as well see."

 

"And what if the ward is stronger this time? What if it just crushes us outright? Or if there's another on this side that we haven't triggered yet, that will turn you into mush, or explode you into tiny bits?"

 

One of his eyebrows quirk, and an amused smirk jumps onto his face. He seems completely different to the blushing young man who gave her a flower earlier on; perhaps it is because they are in his comfortable environment now. 

 

"Then you just sense them, or dispel them where you can."

 

Ariwyn huffs. "We are not going. We will go around."

 

Regardless, he begins trekking back, taking a large step over a chunk of undergrowth. 

 

"Seron! Get back here!"

 

He continues, his bow swinging by his side.

 

"I order you, as First to the Keeper of Clan Lavellan, to come back here this instant!"

 

"Sorry, sweetheart, but we hunters don't have to take orders from Firsts." he calls, waving a hand over his head.

 

Did he just call her sweetheart? Has the adrenaline gone so much to his head that he has lost all bashfulness? Perhaps he was merely acting that way to get pity out of her earlier. Bastard.

 

Reluctantly, she follows after him. His back was quickly disappearing into the darkness; she didn't want to be left alone out here, in this eerie, empty forest. When he realises she is following, he stops, and waits. She wishes she had a bow right now, or some kind of knife, or weapon. She feels watched, and whatever magic used before was much stronger than hers. It felt... old. Ancient, powerful. Perhaps they really should not go back.

 

Alas, Seron is determined. He has the same line of thinking he has that she had, earlier, when the Keeper had gifted her the pendant. Whatever the ward is protecting, he says, he wants to find, and sell, keep if it is important to their heritage. She thinks the second part is an afterthought when he remembers her role in the clan. He probably would sell it all if he found anything worth it. At least he has the clan's best interests at heart. She hopes.

 

They ran a long way. She doesn't realise how far they'd ran until finally, after long minutes of cautious walking, ready for any kind of attack, the same feeling hits her. Ariwyn reaches forward, and taps his shoulder in warning. He nods, and doesn't look back. 

 

"If it gets too heavy, tell me." she says, "I can make its effects weaker, if for a few moments."

 

Again, he nods. She is most curious as to the ward they activated; if the magic used is as old as it feels, then maybe it is protecting a ruin from the days of Elvhenan. Maybe they can discover old relics that would make the Keeper's face light up like it used to when she had some youth left in her. Maybe they can discover a secret that to the ancient empire that changes the life of all elves, Dalish or no.

 

She's getting ahead of herself. They have to find it the wards are protecting anything yet. 

 

"Do you see anything?" she asks. Strangely, the air doesn't seem to be getting heavier. As if it is not intent on capturing them, merely watching. Whatever  _ it _ is, she isn't sure. 

 

"I can't see. At all."

 

She huffed, "Why didn't you say that?"

 

Lifting a hand, a small ball of light rises above their heads. Seron stiffens beside her as she does, and laughs. Afraid of magic, she thinks. If he intends on seriously courting he, he will have to get used to that. When she looks down from her magic, however, she too becomes frozen in place. 

 

Beyond the tree line, where her magic stops short - the outside of the strange ward, perhaps - eyes stare back at them. At first, she thinks wolves. But what wolves have red, glowing eyes, as bright as the magic she has cast above them?

 

What wolf has six?

 

"Fen'Harel." she whispers, in disbelief. And she does not believe it. Surely this is a trick, someone in the clan has decided to play a joke on her following her story. After all, she embellished it more than Keeper Deshanna has in decades, perhaps there is some magic at play. 

 

But the only other person in the clan possessing magic is Keeper Deshanna herself. Unless she pretended to be extremely sick just to trick her like this, this is not her. It is not like her.

 

"Keeper Deshanna told us we can't kill the Dread Wolf." Seron murmurs, eyes trained back at those staring. "That doesn't mean I won't try."

 

"Seron, don't. We don't know what that is, angering it will not help."

 

He snaps back something, something about it being dangerous regardless. He should just shoot, he says. Whatever it is will get hit. He is confident, at least. She is more preoccupied with... something else. She isn't sure what that something else is. There is something- distracting. Whispers at the back of her head, what feels like touches at her hair, the tips of her ears, her shoulders. She gets increasingly tense.

 

"Ariwyn?" a voice asks. It's Seron's, she thinks, but he feels so far away. Something else is more important. 

 

There's a song. After so much eerie silence, she welcomes it. It is soft, melodic. She doesn't recognise the voice singing, but it is a man's, as beautiful as it is haunting. It sends shivers up her spine. She feels drawn to something. 

 

What is that  _ something _ ? she wonders. 

 

There's a pop, and the forest goes dark. 

 

All of a sudden, she becomes conscious of herself again. That was  _ her _ magic that failed, under the pressure of the ward, most likely. Like a balloon under a pin, it was gone. With it, she's aware of where she is again- or rather, where she thinks she is. She can't see.

 

"Seron?" she calls, nervously. "Seron? Are you there?"

 

In response, she hears a soft growl. 

 

Her heart leaps into her chest. Her hands shake. What if she summons the magic again for Seron to be on the ground? To be dead? Bleeding, crying for help? What if the Wolf has eaten him, like the stories?

 

The magic flares in her hands. Seron is there. There is no blood. He is frozen still- he looks like stone.

 

"Do not be frightened."

 

She shrieks. Her magic dies out, and slips from her grasp and fades into the air as she falls, stumbling into the moss beneath. There is a snapped branch under her back; she grabs for it, and swipes outwards with it.

 

"Ir abelas," the unknown voice says, softly.  _ Sorry _ ? 

 

Her eyes, squeezed shut in fear, slowly open to darkness. She wonders if she is alone, then. Has it left, whatever it was? Is she alone? Is Seron alright?

 

Six, gleaming eyes stare back at her. 

 

As if she were prey.   
  



	3. Chapter 3

It is cold.

 

Ariwyn stirs, her head spinning. She tries not to move much, at least until the spinning settles down. She is indoors, and it feels claustrophobic; she cannot see the sky or feel the wind. What she can feel, however, is the air. It is... it is alive, breathing like it itself is a living being. Everything feels light, and free. Magic is everywhere around her, it hums, sings to her. She feels stronger for it. There is just a sense of innate power in it, flowing around her like veins in a river, pulsing, drifting. 

 

There is not much to see. The room almost appears as what her father once described a shemlen prison cell to look like. This room, however, is decorated. It is dark, of course, barely lit save for the light pouring in from under the door. The walls are grey, darkening nearer her with the shadows growing around her. Someone, a previous prisoner, has carved lines into the wall beside her. There are fourteen marks; a number of days spent here, perhaps? Years? She sits on some sort of cot, though when she stands, in alarm, she realises it has been floating this entire time. Suspended in air, by mere magic alone. She certainly isn’t doing that; is there a mage nearby watching her? No, there would not be a mage for each cell alone, surely. More likely, it is something else, some trick, maybe? Perhaps- perhaps it is the magic of this place. It behaves and does things like an autonomous machine?

 

There are no legs or feet to the cot, though, nor does it hang from the wall on chains. It is a thin mattress designed to lie flat, or she supposes, to hover, like this. The mattress itself is soft, cushiony; she has never felt bedding so soft. Curiously, she pushes down on the bed. It falls, but remains in the air. Slowly, it floats back up, and settles to where it was. Strange magic is at work here, she thinks. 

 

She doesn’t think she’s dreaming. She remembers Seron, and Fen’Harel. Was it truly Fen’Harel, the Wolf from the stories, the legends? True enough she had felt a pull, a tug from an unknown force calling to her, drawing her from Seron’s protection. Strange, she thinks, she had felt like she wanted to go. She wanted to follow his call, to step into the darkness where the six eyes of the beast had lingered. There had been magic at work, there, no doubt. Never had she seen such a strong, mind-compelling magic before. 

 

What had happened to Seron?

 

Ariwyn remembers the darkness, the panic, the fear gripping her heart like a tight vice, squeezing, squeezing, until- a voice, she heard. She saw Seron, frozen like ice, a perfect carving of him. Was it a carving, or truly him, turned to stone? The voice spoke to her, though, " _ Ir abelas _ ," it had said. It- he- whatever it was, was sorry. Sorry for frightening her? Whatever it had done to Seron?

 

She sits, on her cot, legs dangling. Her toes, every so often, gently touch the ground as the cot almost bounces, slowly, up and down. It is something she barely notices. The rhythm feels natural, as if the cot is breathing, in - up - and out - down. Perhaps the mages here have enchanted them, to feel lifelike. Whatever for she cannot imagine; to perturb the prisoners, possibly? In her lap, her hands are clasped. Whoever has taken her from her clan, they must have taken her a significant distance. There had not been a shemlen town for miles around, never mind one with such infrastructure to support prison cells, or cell, she isn't sure how many there might be. 

 

There is the possibility to they brought Seron too. But she cannot be hopeful- if she has been brought here alone, there needs to be a readiness for that. Who knows what she will face? The strength the Keeper encouraged over the years has never been needed more than now.

 

But she is scared. 

 

Never has she been away from the clan before. She has no one to trust, no one to talk to or rely on. There she is, alone, accompanied by nothing more than eerie silence, and an atmosphere filled to the brim with magic. It doesn't feel as suffocating as it sounds; having so much almost-natural magic drifting around her, it relaxes her, calms her nerves enough to settle down once more on the cot. Perhaps that is its intention; it is charmed to sedate the prisoners it entraps.

 

Her father had warned her, prepared her for such a situation. Wait, he told her, until the hunters come for you. Don't try to escape on your own, was the warning.  _ Will they come? _ she wondered. When her mother was stolen from them, no attempt was made to rescue her. True, the situation was different - a shemlen city was harder to infiltrate than a ruin in the forests. Or, at least, that is what she assumes this place is. Buried deep beneath the ground, perhaps, the entrance hidden within the ward circle Seron had stumbled into. It was all his fault; if he hadn't have insisted on going back, wandering off on his own, she would not be in this mess. 

 

It smells, like damp.

 

Closing her eyes, she breathes, deeply. In, out. She counts to ten. Another ten, to twenty. Thirty. By the time she hits a full minute, her heart beat has settled to a gentle thump, thump, thump. It is nowhere near as rapid as it was moments before. As she sinks back into the mattress of the cot beneath her, she hopes, maybe, that this is all a wild dream. That her imagination has gotten the better of her, after the telling of the stories from Elvhenan. She drifts, and hopes she wakes in reality to find the rocking motion of the aravel as her clan roams to wake her, and the wind to gently tug at her hair. If she could wake up to her father, excited about the idea of a courtship between her and Seron even, she would be content. 

 

When she feels a sense of consciousness again, it is none of those things. The world Ariwyn faces now is morphing and blending around her; the flower she glances at curls into a bird and takes flight, and the cloud she sees pops and rains down sparkling glints of crystal. She is dreaming  _ now _ , she realises; this is the world of the Dreaming. She's entered the Fade. Never has she been able to control it, however. 

 

Perhaps "control" is too far a word. The world shifts around her at her command, yes, but she does not seem to have much input. She sees something and it changes to how she perceives it, the first thing her mind thinks of. At least she does not seem to be affecting anyone else. She supposes she might have her own little slice of the Fade, here. Peacefully, she sits, and ponders. Is there meant to be something here that means something? She reaches, and the grass her hands settle in darkens, and burns. The fire does not hurt; it crackles away at a patch under her palm until there is nought but ash between her fingers. It is sticky, like the dew of the colourful orbs she made for the children to chase.

 

How long ago was that? There seems to be no concept of time here, other than the prisoner's marks on the wall. She wonders how they had done that, how they had measured each scratch. 

 

When she wakes, this time to the waking world, there is rustling outside her door. She jumps up from the cot eagerly, unsure of what she expected. However, a small hatch at the bottom of the door is swung up, and a small container is slid into the room. Rushing over, she picks it up only to nearly curse when something wet tips over her.

 

Water. 

 

No food.

 

She rations the water out, taking a small sip only when needed when it feels like an hour has passed, maybe two. She can't tell, really. When she feels tired, she lays, thinks, and slips into the Fade. Not much happens, though she accidentally sets fire to the scenery around her quite often, no matter how it changes. Once, she wakes in the Dreaming to find herself in a stone keep, and the wall melts away before her to reveal an endless void. Stepping into it only led to her walking through a doorway back into the same corridor. 

 

Her dreams are vivid. Certainly more than they have ever been, and soon she begins seeing people in them. She wonders, at first, if her clansmen are too dreaming, and she can leave with them a cry for help. Instead, her hand reaches through them, like ghosts; memories, she realises. Familiar scenes play out before her, and she re-enacts them like a play, like a script she has memorised. Her father is there, in quite a few dreams. She is a child in most of them, looking up to him.

 

Someone is watching her, it feels like.

 

She is unsure how long she has been here, in this cell, with the magic bed and markings of unknown quantities of time. Her captors give her a dozen generous servings of water, she counts. She begins to wonder if their plan is to starve her to death, or perhaps hope she drinks enough so fast she drowns herself. 

 

It is a few hours after the fourteenth beaker of water that something begins to happen outside her cell. There is some shouting, and sounds of struggle, and she half hopes that there is a rescue party here to bail out prisoners, and she does not care if they are here for her or not. Quickly, she sits up when her door flies open, and crashes against the chalk grey wall behind it. Momentarily, she blinks, struggling to see against the light pouring in from the hallway behind the man in the doorway.

 

He is certainly not what she expected. He wears armour, almost like Dalish. No, it looks like armour scavenged by the Dalish, ancient and untouched by the passage of time, hidden away in a deadly ruin. That kind of loot is reserved only for the most foolhardy of hunters - like Seron, she thinks - who are willing to risk fighting wards as old as Elvehnan to find something of worth to their clan. It is golden, and gilded, form fitting to his legs and arms, a breastplate decorated with engraved carvings and runes. Upon his head he wears a helm, and it matches his armour; she has never seen a full set before, she thinks. Whoever this man is, he has certainly spent a lot of time digging.

 

Though for one who should be up to the elbows in dirt, his armour is practically shining against the bright lights of the outside.

 

He barks something at her. For a moment, she fails to comprehend. He shouts again. 

 

It clicks, the second time; he is speaking E _ lven _ .

 

"Move!" he shouts, gesturing to the hallway. There are others, outside, shouting the same. All in Elven, she notes.

 

These people are Dalish, then. Their accents and pronunciation are too good to be those pretenders living in the shem cities, or a shem themselves wearing a relic that does not belong to them. 

 

Obligingly, she stands. Perhaps she can negotiate, knowing their tongue. 

 

When she reaches the door, his hand grasps the thin fur - ram - and shoves her forcefully out into the hall, as if she were incapable of going out herself. His fingers are sharp in her shoulder; his gauntlets, the same gold as the armour plating his legs and chest, have claws. She looks more, staring almost, and realises no, they are not claws, just peculiarly sharp and pointed glove fingers.

 

The hallway she stands in is simple, light floors, and walls, too clean. It does not feel like a ruin. It is well lit, by magic orbs floating above her head, pushing against the low ceiling as if they do not want to be here either. There are others, here. A line of prisoners, and their respective guards, all in the same garb as hers; they  _ all _ collectively did a lot of ruin-diving then. The people to her left and right are elves. The entire corridor is lined with  _ elves _ , and only elves, recently removed from their holdings. Only the jailers seem to have some sort of certainty about them- the rest of the prisoners seem as confused as she.

 

At the end of the bright, bright corridor is a shout. It echoes all the way down to her, and presumably to the other end of the corridor that she cannot see. The end behind looks like a mirror, but it ripples in an unnatural way, like a pond. At the shout, their jailers dressed in their fantastical armours slam the bottoms of their spears into the stone ground, with enough force to cause at least a crack, but the ground stays firm. Their spears, too, match the golden of their armour. Ariwyn is beginning to think they did not dig for their equipment.

 

The line begins to move. It shuffles, a few steps at a time, like a child struggling to learn its feet. Only, there is no learning here, only struggling. She moves along, keeping an eye on the elven jailers marching alongside them, keeping them in line. She remains there, looking at the back of the elf before her; tall, slender woman. Shaved head. Poor clothes, tattered and scruffy. She briefly looks at one of the passing guards in disgust, like a rebellious teen scoffing at the Chantry mother who asked her kindly to sit like a lady.

 

Not Dalish. 

 

Whatever her captors’ plans were, they were not solely for her people. 

 

They walk for what feels like hours. Ariwyn grows weary, and the ceiling feels like it’s slowly crushing them. The air too, is thick with not only magic but fear, confusion. Surely she is dreaming; there is no explaining the sudden change of space. How did she and Seron travel from the forests of their camp to this complex dungeon, filled with elven prisoners and policed by elven guards?

 

There are stairs. The pace slows further, and halts altogether until the guards demand they climb in pairs. As one passes, he pokes the point of his elegantly crafted spear at the woman in front of her. 

 

“Move.” he commands. He speaks Elven.

 

She looks at him blankly, and replies in a language Ariwyn is more practised in using, “What?”

 

Ariwyn’s tongue slips from between her teeth. “He says move." she whispers, in the same dialect.

 

“Silence!” the spear is almost thrust in her face. Then, it moves back to its previous target. “ _ Move _ .”

 

She falls into step alongside the city elf. It is unusual, she thinks, that she should meet one of the people so estranged from their ways in such a manner. The city elves had always been a mystery to her; they had turned their back on what was left of their culture, for what? It is better to be free like the Dalish than crapped like rats in a shemlen city, wasn't it?

They reach the top of the stairs, and the ambience changes. The feeling in the air physically shifts, to a calmer, less tense emotion. It feels lighter, now, less pressing. The magic is still there, hovering about her, about all of them, like motes of dust. However, up here, it feels warm. It no longer smells of damp.

 

No, it smells delightful. There is a smell of food, cooking over a fire, somewhere. Succulent meats to make her mouth water, and hers is not the only empty stomach to growl amongst the prisoners. There is also something fresh about this area; aside from the food, there is a familiar smell, like wet grass after a light shower, or waking up to a dewy morning. It helps her relax more, despite the guards hounding them with pointed spears. 

 

The area they are in now feels like a palace. She thinks of her retelling of the stories of Fen'Harel, of the shapes of Arlathan the fire had twisted into when she had imagined it. The ceilings are high, the walls stretching so high they could stack five of these tall guards atop each other and they would still not even reach the top of a curved archway. Everything is golden, and sparkling, like a brilliant dazzling suns. Around pillars and archways that reach to the arched ceiling of the corridor, ivy curls, growing like tendrils and breaking the extravagant facade with a bit of natural beauty. It remains controlled, however, like an invisible force is holding it back from outgrowing everything that man had built here.

 

Ariwyn is in awe. Never before has she seen something so beautiful and pristine, and yet so Elven. There is no way this small group of elves found such a ruin and brought it back to life. First, the armour and the strange magic, now this. There is something going on here, something that she has not considered. But it is surely impossible such a place, such people, even exist. The shems made good on their promise since their unjust conquest of the Dales. The other prisoners around her too are just as amazed. One or two of them behave like this is familiar, and she thinks perhaps they have once laid their eyes upon the city of Halamshiral- the beautiful capital of the second Elven Empire. The attempt, anyway; traitorous shemlen stole that from them too. She tries to keep her anger contained. Keeper Deshanna frequently lectures her for having poor control over her emotions when she thinks of the past.

 

The line curves - they turn, and are led through one of the archways in the corridor. There are eyes, beyond archways further down the corridor, peering, curious. More elves, unarmoured, unmasked, and they look just like her or any of the other prisoners. Their faces bare vallaslin. She catches a glimpse of one of the closer ones, who peer cautiously at the guards between him and the prisoners; Mythal's winding branches mark his face in a blood red.

 

The hall they enter is magnificent. The ceiling reaches just as high, but the space is split in two; there is a long space they enter, stopping before a set of tall stairs that stop after a dozen or two, stretching from one end of the long hall to the other. A carpet is laid down below them, a warm ruby red, and the unwashed feet of the prisoners scuff it and dirty it. She blinks- the elf before her left a trail of dirty footprints only for them to fade just as fast as they were made.  _ Magic _ , she thinks, feeling rather silly.

 

Figures move at the top of the stairs. She can see a few heads, more of the helmeted guards and then some. There is some more thumping of spears against the ground, like what had happened downstairs in the dungeon; it does not make any less noise against the carpet that is settled at the top of the stairs, too. The noise echoes. It is loud, and rings in her ears.

 

Someone comes to stand at the top of the stairs at the announcement. It is a woman; the first of the strange elves that have greeted them since they left their cells. She is tall, and beautiful, soft white hair falling down behind her shoulders, and joining the trail of her extravagant robe that trickles with embellishments of gold. Atop her head sits a crown, made of delicate flowers twisted into twining vines. Underneath it, on her smooth skin, are markings of Mythal. Her eyes are golden, burning, like an all too familiar fire. The eyes like small flames look over the collective of prisoners before her. Suddenly, Ariwyn remembers her dreams, and feels like the sticky ash that clung to her hands.

 

"Welcome." she says, looking like she is not at all straining her voice to be heard. In fact, it carries well across the room despite her not raising her voice. She speaks in Elven, too, like the guards. The prisoners without vallaslin around her look nervous.

 

Another elf steps forward. There is something more grand about him, than the others. The gilded armour he wears bears striking resemblance to the others, but there is something more regal about this particular elf. There is a line of dark fur trailed over the pauldron on his right shoulder, it stops halfway down his chest, and ends at his back the same length. It is secured in place with a tight, silvery ribbon, that looks just as strong as the fastening of his armour across his breastplate. His hair is fastened in tight braids, the ones on the very top of his head secured down to his scalp. The rest, more free, fall down to over his shoulders, secured together near the top with pretty clips, not for pure decoration. On his brow, falling to halfway down his forehead, and secured with braids of his hair, is the skull of a wolf.  _ This one is important _ , Ariwyn thinks.

 

"Pride," the woman says.  _ Solas _ . "Speak for me."

 

The elf repeats her welcome in a language the rest of the elves can understand. She seems some understanding flicker in the eyes of those without vallaslin. His use of their language only confuses Ariwyn more, however. If he has knowledge of both, then he must have gotten it from somewhere. What somewhere? And how can she get back there?

 

Regardless, Ariwyn does not require his translation. Keeper Deshanna taught her well enough of the ancient Elven language that she can understand the woman's words.

 

"You will find open arms here," she continues, voice steady. She pauses, whilst Solas reiterates her words in another language. "For you have been chosen, amongst those of your world, to be saved."

 

Saved?  _ Another world? _

 

She smiles in the face of confusion. "Some of you will know my name. Others, you will learn." her arms outstretch, almost in a welcoming gesture. However, it feels more like she is preaching. "I am the Protector, Mother of the People. I am Mythal."

 

There is a collective of gasps amongst the prisoners. She is one of them, her heart stuck somewhere between her chest and throat. Some Dalish immediately fall to their knees in reverance, a handful of terrified unmarked ones following suit, scrambling to please. Ariwyn has to refrain from demanding, "Truly?" as loud as the woman claiming to be a goddess, to ask questions, to pester, to inquire. There is the familiar burning of curiosity inside, and she is as eager to find answers now as she is wary. It could still be a trick, after all.

 

A very, very elaborate and intricate trick.

 

"Soon, your world will face a terrible and devastating fate." Mythal says calmly, as casually as if she is discussing the weather. "We of the People extend our hands, and our homes, to protect the few we can. You are amongst those that will be spared of a most tragic end. You will serve, to repay your debt."

 

After Solas finishes translating, one of the city elves bursts into a fit of outrage.

 

"What debt? We didn't  _ ask _ you to take us from our homes!" he yells, about to charge up the stairs. Mythal and Solas do not even flinch; a jailer moves so fast that his movement can barely be seen, and the edge of his spear is placed against his throat. His eyes almost jump out of his skull.

 

Solas' voice picks up again, though he does not wait for any input from the goddess. "Mythal demands you serve." he says. "So you shall  _ serve _ ."

 

The jailer removes his spear, only to shove him back so hard into the crowd that he falls, and a few hands reach to catch him before he falls. Ariwyn swallows, her throat is tight. These elves, whoever t they are- they are serious. There is no hint of a jest about them. They claim she is Mythal. 

 

Is she?

 

There is a smile on the goddess' face.

 

Perhaps.   
  



	4. Chapter 4

Mythal is still smiling as the elf rights himself, and nods to those who caught him in thanks. Ariwyn's heart jumps; one that nods back is Seron.

 

"Those of you with the markings of blood, will step forth." the goddess continues as if there had not been an outcry, as if there had been no resistance. Perhaps that single shout of protest did not even count as resistance in her eyes, it was insignificant. "The rest of you will remain, and will be gifted the markings when you are divided into serving houses."

 

As the man, Solas, repeats her words in common tongue, Ariwyn feels a tug on her arm. The woman from before, who had been her partner on the stairs, for whom she had translated, if only briefly. For all her defiance before, and her distaste of those around her, there is fear in the woman's eyes. She looks unsure, uncertain; and most frightening, she is looking at Ariwyn like a young hunter would look to the Keeper. For help.

 

"If they offer you," she whispers, as soft as she can - she speaks in the same language Solas is now. One guard's head twitches in her direction, but he does not look. She lets out a breath she did not realise she was holding and continues, "Ask for Mythal's vallaslin. Then, perhaps, we will meet again."

 

The woman nods, still holding her jaw tight but there is some determination in her eyes. She looks more certain of herself now- perhaps all she required was a direction.

 

The jailers yell, and some Dalish come forth. Reluctantly, the woman releases her sleeve, and she realises she has to go, too. Closing her eyes and breathing deeply, she makes her way to the front of the crowd. The majority of those waiting in line before the stairs are wearing the makeshift clothes and leather armours of the clans, but some, she notices, are wearing clothes made by shems. Traitors from the Dalish, too?

 

She tries to delay, to wait until Seron joins the queue. She cannot - a jailer growls at her, incoherently, and threateningly jabs his spear at her. Seron joins a few elves after her, and she knows he has noticed her. His eyes are burning into the back of her skull.

 

"I will sort you to serve before the god for which you chose your markings," Mythal calls. She beckons the first elf forward; she is to serve Sylaise.

 

_ Who did Seron ask for, when he got his vallaslin? _ she thinks desperately. She was there for every ritual in recent years, and scrambles to remember Seron's. He had his done a few years before her - she remembers not helping, but watching, as Keeper Deshanna carved the markings into his face, watching him struggle to keep his composure, but his hands were curled into the tightest of fists on his lap. She only knew his pain when she received hers.

 

Quickly, she thinks. She must remember. The queue is moving faster than she anticipated; those sorted are organized into lines on one side of the hall, atop the stairs, almost out of sight of the prisoners yet to be at the bottom. He was a young hunter, brash, eager to impress any of the older hunters. Who would he choose?

 

Andruil! Of course, of course he would. The same as her father; the goddess of the hunt, asking for her blessing and praying before every excursion from camp for a worthy hunt. 

 

Oh, Seron.  _ You fool, you fool! _

 

She glances back, and Seron seems to have come to the same conclusion when his eyes glance over her face. 

 

They will not be sorted together.

 

Her eyes fill, with tears that she refuses to let spill. She has never been close to the young hunter, but he is one of hers, and she is one of his. Clan Lavellan have always stood together, no matter the differences and small squabbles and in-fighting. Now she is to be parted from him, stranded in an unknown land with no hope of charting it, not alone. And now she has lost one of their best hunters.

 

She swallows back the lump in her throat, and squeezes her eyes until the tears recede. The hall is deathly silent. Occasionally, there is a shuffle, as one moves forth to climb the gilded stairs to meet Mythal. She places her hands upon their shoulders and declares their god. Then, there is more shuffling, and the line moves forward. Ariwyn feels a sense of uncertainty as she gets closer to the base of the stairs. She shares the same markings as the goddess- there are none so far that have been hers. 

 

The elf before her, uncertain, begins the ascent. He stops, and the goddess seems to grow weary of this already – after only a handful of individual sorting – and declares he belongs to Elgar'nan.

 

It is her turn, she realises with a sudden shot of nervousness. Slowly, she starts to climb the stairs; they are shifting like liquid gold, patterns changing and curving with the movement of the magic within them, but they are solid under her feet. Nervously, she approaches the top of the stairs. Her heart feels like it is pounding in her chest as she stops before Mythal- the goddess protector, the leader of ancient Elvhenan, the Mother of the People. 

 

The goddess’ eyes flitter over her face. She nods in approval, but there is almost a sly look in her eyes, as golden and shifty as the stairs she climbed to get here.

 

“You are mine,” Mythal declares, and smiles, lips turning up at the corners. There is something wrong about it, not perfectly sweet. Not perfect. 

 

Ariwyn nods twice, slowly, unsure of herself. Her brows draw together as she glances to the lines that have formed with those already sorted. Where should she go? she wonders, realising there is no beckoning guard like there had been for everyone else, realising there is no existing line for Mythal's servants.

 

"Pride." the goddess breaks her reprieve, and she looks up in surprise. Mythal is still looking at her. "She is for you."

 

The one she calls Solas looks uncertain. He clears his throat, and steps forward, hands still folded neatly behind his back. He leans forward, and whispers in Mythal's ear. It is not quite enough, she hears him very well. Maybe he thinks she cannot understand Elven well enough.

 

"You are certain?" he asks, brows tight as his eyes flash from the goddess, to her. She feels suddenly inadequate in comparison. "You would not like her to serve you?"

 

"What I would like is for you to do as I ask." she replies, a sly smile on her lips. He straightens, abruptly. 

 

In doubt, Ariwyn begins in the opposite direction to what all the others previously sorted had ventured. Mythal watches her go, and only looks away when the next elf steps forward, looking eager, unlike most that had come before. He too wears Mythal's blood writing, but she simply brushes him aside to join the others. Ariwyn is unsure whether to feel special, or very much like prey to be toyed with.

 

She stands beside Pride, but a little behind him. He seems to think her positioning is adequate, as he does not complain or give her any instructions that differ to what she has done herself. Mythal had said that she was his- did that mean she was simply a servant? Normally, she would pray to the goddess that that was all it meant, but seeing as it was that same goddess that placed her here, she has never been more confused in her life.

 

Seron walks forward. His eyes have some sort of longing in them as he looks to her, and she looks back, but only with a wish to not be separated from someone familiar. For some reason, she begins to question his love again. Did he truly mean the gift he gave her? Was it truly an effort to court her as a woman, and not the daughter of a man he admired? The way he looks at her now, she has no doubts.

 

"Andruil, young hunter." Mythal says, but pauses momentarily when Seron does not move away immediately. Her eyes follow his back to where Ariwyn stands, with the man of pride between them.

 

The goddess says nothing. When she looks back, Seron moves.

 

They watch as the rest of those with vallaslin are sorted by Mythal. The goddess is not required for this, Ariwyn thinks, perhaps it is to send a message instead. Maybe it is to show the new arrivals who is in command. 

 

She glances at Solas. He is watching the proceedings with a calm, straight face; indifferent to the picking and choosing of the goddess like a child sorting out a collection of toys. He stays very still throughout it all. A lot of the elves here do, that were not brought here as prisoners. No fidgeting, no looking around, barely even blinking. Though, she remembers, that she cannot see most of the jailers for their masks. 

 

_ Why does he not wear one? _ she wonders, staring at the man's profile. 

 

It is as if he feels her staring. His eyes flash to her, and she quickly looks down at her feet. He still caught her.

 

The Dalish - and those few traitors that wore both vallaslin and the clothes of the shemlen - do not take long to sort. Mythal gets bored, it seems; she barely waits for a new servant to come before her, and announces their god within seconds. Ariwyn could do this, any of these elves could. If the goddess was truly that bored, could she not assign someone like Solas, or one of the guards to do it instead?

 

When they are finished with, Mythal looks back to the rest at the base of the stairs. There are not many unmarked, she realises. Fen'Harel seems to prefer to hunt the Dalish. 

 

"Now those of you remaining will receive your marks." she says, her voice is strangely melodic after returning to complete sentences, instead of single names. Solas repeats, in the language the rest can understand.  _ Why does he know it, but the goddess does not? _ Ariwyn wonders. 

 

The elves gathered seem frightened, wary of the guards around them. Their faces are bare, like children. Soon, they will have vallaslin like adults of any clan. Ariwyn does not envy them in having the ritual performed in such a tense atmosphere; it hurts, terribly, but at least the Dalish receive theirs in relative comfort with a familiar figure performing it. They line up, like marked ones had before, and slowly begin up the stairs towards Mythal. 

 

The goddess has no tools, however. No ink. The first barefaced elf to kneel before her squeezes their eyes shut as she places a hand on their brow. Then, it is done, and she removes her hand to reveal the intricate markings of Falon'Din.

 

She suddenly feels very cheated. There are a number among the Dalish on the other side of the room who voice their discomfort in huffs, and she swears she sees a small smirk on face of the one Mythal calls Solas. As if he knows the reason as to why they are unhappy. 

 

Mythal does this for every unmarked prisoner left. She has not asked, once, if any of them have a particular god they wish to serve. Each elf that has come has knelt, and received the marks of who Mythal picked. Perhaps there is a method to it, perhaps she can sense who they should serve. Or, perhaps, she has simply counted those that already had markings, and dealt the rest evenly. 

 

Except, that does not benefit her.

 

The woman, with the shaved head and tattered clothes, steps forth. Hesitantly, she kneels before the goddess, who looks at her in mild curiosity. Quickly, the woman opens her mouth as Mythal raises her hand.

 

"I wish to serve you!" she spits, as if she lost control of her tongue. Mythal pauses, and glances at Solas.

 

He repeats it for her, in some confusion. His eyes glance in suspicion at Ariwyn, but she keeps her eyes on the elf before Mythal, and pretends not to notice him.

 

Her hand settles on her brow. She does not close her eyes, only stares up at the palm above her, and watches as it retreats. For a moment, Ariwyn fears Mythal heard her plea and decided to ignore it. But, she appears to have fulfilled her request; upon the woman's forehead are the branches of the goddess' vallaslin. 

 

Mythal directs her elsewhere, however. The woman does not join her and Solas; she joins the others, and creates her own line alongside the others sorted. A handful among those left to be sorted follow her example, and request the names of gods or goddesses they have heard. Perhaps they wish to appease her by proving they know a few names, pretending they have knowledge they do not. Regardless, Mythal sometimes fulfils their request, other times ignoring them entirely with a smile alight with amusement on her face. It is almost cruel; a die with spiked edges.

 

Andruil ends up with the most new servants. It is probably due to hunters praying to her for obvious reasons, to no surprise. Mythal ends up with the least. It is strange, that the goddess with the least had been the one orchestrating it all. Perhaps she is simply in need of less servants than the others.

 

From the smile on her face, Ariwyn guesses there is probably a deeper meaning to her actions.

 

The goddess takes one glance over the collection of Dalish, and newly marked elves of the alienages, nods to herself and without a word, disappears out of the door behind her. Her hair and dress tail alike spin around her as she moves, like an updraft of snow in the wake of prancing halla.

 

There is no release of pent-up breath like she would expect out of the guards. It is strange; she had expected some sort of relief at her exit, but they remain perfectly still, perfectly composed. Perhaps they are very well disciplined. She is still staring at one particular guard who grips his spear like a staff when she realises that Solas has gone. 

 

Hurriedly, she looks around her. Her panic barely has time to settle in before she realises he is waiting, stood in another doorway to the left of where Mythal exited. The doors stand open for him, he does not touch them. He does not look impatient, or annoyed at her hesitance to follow. He simply waits.

 

One final time, she glances to where the rest are stood. She sees the woman, standing alongside one other servant of Mythal who was sorted, a young man. In the crowd, she spots Seron. He is standing amongst the chaos, the servants around him who scurry in their groups, looking for familiar faces. His eyes are on her. 

 

Solas is waiting, still.

 

Silently, she goes. She does not wave, or gesture, or nod. She simply bows her head, and walks to where he stands, and follows him as he leaves the hall. Seron stays where he is. 

 

For a time, she silently follows after him. His pace is unusual; his legs, lean and long, look to take lengthy steps, cover more ground faster, but he hesitates. His head keeps tilting to her, as if to check she is still there. He is adjusting to her pace, she realises, speeding when he forgets himself and slowing when noticing she has fallen a few steps behind.  _ Most unusual _ , she thinks. That a man on the side of those who had previously had her jailed for who knows how long is extending such a simply courtesy. 

 

The corridors all look alike. The ceilings, impossibly high and walls impossibly tall, floors tiled with clean, cold smoothness, decorated with pretty golden mosaics she is scared to step on for fear of breaking. There is still the consistency of the ivy, though; it is reassuring, she almost pauses in their walking entirely to reach to a leaf, to see if it is real. To feel it against her skin, to know that it is natural. This place, all of it; it is gaudy, and almost hurts to look at. It is too beautiful. 

 

There is a break in the rhythm. On her right, the corridor walls break away into open arch after open arch, no doors, shutters. It is open and breathing and real. She stops, and scurries to the stone rail between her and the open. It is a garden, she thinks; plants, flowers, trees, clustered together into a natural, sprawling way, a little path carved through it all with delicate stepping stones, a well tucked away behind bushes. She learns forward, and looks up. The sky, it is there. Night time, but it is there. Moving and warping, but it is there.

 

It actually makes her a little dizzy staring at it.

 

Steps echo through the hallway. Solas stops beside her. "Would you like to go have a look?" he asks, politely.

 

Eagerly, she nods, and he lifts an offering hand to direct her through the archway that is not blocked off by a railing. She feels lightheaded; is any of this truly real? None of it makes any sense. Her mind is frantic as she lightly trails her fingers over the soft green leaves of a rose bush beside her, expression unchanging as they find thorns amongst it. She has so many questions, and now that she has an opportunity to ask, she does not know where to start. Solas is watching her. 

 

"Can I ask some things?" she requests. Her voice is small.

 

He releases a breath when she does. "Some, yes. The night is late, perhaps we should consider retiring soon."

 

She does not want to. She feels perfectly awake, alert. She stops before the well, places her hands on the edge. The water inside is moving, constantly. Shifting. It is an odd sea-foam green. Curiously, she goes to dip a finger in.

 

"I would not do that." Solas advises, and she halts immediately. 

 

"What is it?"

 

"You are certain you wish me to spend already precious time answering that question?"

 

After a moment of deliberation, she nods. Surprisingly, he chuckles, quiet and low.

 

"It is what we have taken to calling a spirit well." he says, and too approaches the well. He deftly twists the fastenings of his left gauntlet, and slips it from his arm. His hand is pale, especially in the dim light of the garden. It reaches down, and his fingers dip into the water; it moves like slime. The puddle in his palm makes a noise; it chirps, almost, and she gasps as it twists, and it becomes solid. It flutters from his hand like a bird.

 

"That- that was a spirit?" she stutters, spinning, looking for where it has gone. It has perched on a tall branch of a willow tree looming over head. Its beak is picking at its new feathers.

 

There is a clink of metal as he slips his gauntlet back on. There is no residue of the water left on his skin. 

 

"Indeed." he nods, "In truth it is more complicated, but yes. That was a spirit."

 

When she looks up again, the spirit is gone. There is only sparkling dust, in the colour of sea-foam, pouring down from the branch.

 

"Where am I?"

 

Solas seems surprised at her directness. She is, too. Nevertheless, he answers her.

 

"Your people would call this place the Dreaming. Or, perhaps, we are in the Beyond." he seems a little unsure himself, as he begins to pace past her, arms folded behind his back again. His gaze is lost amongst the stars, that twist and turn around themselves. "The Veil is not as simple as most believe. There are layers of reality."

 

She is too delirious for this, she thinks. Layers? Of reality itself?

 

He remembers himself. Turning back to her, he offers a smile. "I apologise. Now is not the time for such... controversial topics."

 

"The matter of where you reside is controversial?"

 

He almost laughs. "It is a great matter of debate amongst the Evanuris, yes."

 

_ Evanuris _ . He says it with such certainty, in such seriousness. He truly believes it, then. Mythal is not the only legend to be walking among them, wherever they are.

 

"You are aware that your name literally means Pride?" she asks. It is perhaps the stupidest question she could ask now. 

 

He nods, his brows raised slightly as if wondering whether she too knows if it is a rather foolish question. "I am, yes. I was aware when I picked it."

 

She says his name.  _ Solas _ . It rolls off the tongue, easier than a lot of Elven words to say. Such an odd name to pick for yourself, she thinks. She did not choose to call herself Compassion, or a warrior Valour, or a hunter Strength. 

 

Demon names.

 

"You named yourself after a type of demon?"

 

He looks insulted. If not insulted, at least annoyed. "Pride is not the name of a demon, it is one of a spirit. A demon is a spirit twisted against its nature."

 

_ Mental note _ , she thinks,  _ do not say the word demon around him again. _

 

Then, his brows draw together more in confusion than anger. "You are speaking Elven."

 

She realises, as she listens to him speak, that they are conversing in the ancient tongue. When did that begin? When she said his name, perhaps. She is unsure. She did not even notice; she slipped between them as easily as going from a slight jog to breaking into a run. 

 

"I am." she agrees. 

 

His head cocks to the side. "You are not just any member of your clan, are you?" 

 

He knows of clans. He knows of the Dalish. She wonders how many elves here do.

 

"I was-  _ am _ my Keeper's First."

 

Solas nods, as if he understands. Maybe he does, maybe he knows exactly what that means. She is not willing to test how far his knowledge goes, at the moment. 

 

"Come," he says, and takes steps to retreat back up the path they entered the garden through, "It is time you settle to sleep. There will be time for questions later."

 

As they begin through the gilded halls once more, she thinks of Seron.    
  



	5. Chapter 5

Ariwyn wakes in the morning, more tired than when she went to sleep. Her dreams had been vivid again, bright. She had wandered from memory to memory, as if she was showcasing her entire life to herself. She had felt like she was being watched the whole time. 

 

There is sunlight. It streams through the windows beside her bed, creating colourful patterns on the floor from the decorative stained glass that sit at the top curve. At least her bed had been incredibly comfortable; soft, much better than the cot she had spent however many days in, with plush pillows and warm blankets. She steps out onto the floor, and the tiles are cold beneath her bare toes. The room, far larger than anything she's ever had to herself, is wide, adorned with neat furnishings and decorative pieces hanging from the walls. There are a few mirrors; hanging from the wall beside the door, set against the far wall on a dressing table, one sat on the bedside table. Perhaps the elves that live here are simply very vain. 

 

In the corner of the room there is a wardrobe, and a wash basin. Both are decorated with embellishments of gold, in the corners of each face of the furniture, twisted into edges like vines. Without looking at herself in the reflection of the mirrors, she washes her face, and tries to freshen up as much as she can. She wonders if there are places to properly bathe here. 

 

As she goes to leave the room, wandering past the storage boxes left here - "The room has not had sufficient time to be prepared properly, I am afraid." Solas had said last night - she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. It is full length, and hits the floor and reaches up to her height. Her reflection looks just like it does in water; shifting slightly, rippling when her finger pokes at the glass. It is certainly very strange. She wonders whether magic is being used to watch her through it. 

 

She decides she does not care. She would rather be spied upon than wander this palace in her current garb, and stick out like a sore thumb if other elves were to see her. No one here but the prisoners wear clothes like the Dalish. Reluctantly, she pries off her clothes, the only outfit she has ever owned, setting it down neatly on the edge of the bed. Opening the wardrobe, she is taken aback at the supply there; gowns, vests, tunics, various skirts and trousers and different types of garments she has never laid eyes upon before. There are even real shoes - she picks one up, and stares at it in disgust. How is she supposed to feel the ground if her feet are covered up?

 

Too much of it is garish, she thinks. Not wanting to remain uncovered for too long, in fear of the mirrors, she reaches for the first vaguely simple attire she spots. There is a white tunic, brighter than she would usually choose, and her nose screws up when she sees it is adorned with silvery decals down the neckline, and around the sleeve cuffs and the very bottom. Huffing, she tosses it on. It is not meant for someone of her size; it ends past halfway on her thighs. Trousers, she thinks in relief, are less decorative. She finds a pair of relatively simple leathers, but is momentarily lost at the amount of ties on them. There are some at the top, at her waist, that she figures out easily enough, but there are some down the outsides of her legs, as if the designer had intended for the wearer to simply decide they want more of a breeze. It takes too long to lace them up - she will not wear these tomorrow.

 

There is nothing that takes her fancy to wear on her feet, so she opts to take the wraps from her old attire; she covers up some of the lacing up the sides of her trousers with them, stopping under the knee. The tunic still feels too much, too big, so she digs into the wardrobe and finds a box of belts, many of which are too chunky, or too extravagant. Finally, she settles on one that almost matches the colour of her trousers, a little wider than she would have preferred but it settles around her waist nicely, tugging in the tunic to a slightly more manageable size.

 

Glancing in the mirror once more, she definitely feels strange. Being in different clothes almost feels wrong. Leaving her hair as it is, she reaches for the handle of her door, and it opens without complaint.

 

The hallway is quiet. There are no elves about, but the palace feels more alive in the day time. The golden walls are no longer sombre, but bright, and welcoming. She steps out, and closes the door behind her. She is unsure what she is to do; Solas gave her no instructions before he left her. She does not even know where he is. Still, there is no one around to stare at her as she fumbles about trying to find her way, so she begins down the corridor.

 

"Hungry." a soft voice whispers. It does not scare her as much as it should; it is soft and feels almost like a thought, at the back of her head. Yes, she is. She hasn't eaten in so long.

 

She wanders a bit more until she comes to a fork. The path she is on ends, and splits two ways to her left and right. Admittedly, she is tempted to simply go back the way she came, she does not want to get lost in this maze of a palace.

 

The same voice calls her back. "No, no." it says. "This way. Food, hungry."

 

In confusion, Ariwyn glances around her. There is no one here, she looks up. No one there, either.  _ What is there to lose? _ she thinks, as she follows where the ghostly voice calls from.

 

There is noise as she continues down the hallway. It is like dinner time in the clan, except much louder, many more people. It is a collective of chatter, a hub of activity. Nervously, she peers around the archway it comes from. The hall is massive, larger than any room she has been in so far. There are rows and rows of tables, where hundreds of elves sit, in groups or alone, chatting over breakfast. The tables are lined with food and drink, enough to feed a dozen clans for at least five winters.

 

A few heads turn. One face she catches looks at her and screws up in disgust, and the man turns to his group and is not subtle in any way in how he gossips about what he sees. No one comes and offers welcome arms, like Mythal had promised. Sighing, she pulls back from the archway and begins to walk back the way she came. Her stomach growls in protest, and she feels slightly woozy, but she does not know enough politics of this world to bother fighting through that battlefield of words. 

 

"No." the little voice calls, and she feels a tug on the back of her tunic, "You must eat, very hungry. Lots of food, no more hunger."

 

She spins in place, but whatever is stuck to her keeps a tight hold of the back of her tunic. She is suddenly reminded of Seron, with the children, clinging to him as he pretends unable to see where they are. Except, whatever it is, it is no child; it is as light as a feather, only weighing when it tugs.

 

Someone clears their throat, as she spins in the hallway. Quickly, she straightens herself, and her face feels hot, tucking back her hair as she looks for the source of the sound. A man is stood before her, looking almost concerned, and then a sense of recognition seems to kick in when he examines her face. He seems less hesitant to speak now, and tries to walk past her. Before he does, however, he reaches behind her back.

 

"Perhaps you should teach it some manners," he suggests, and drops something into her open arms.

 

As he enters the eating hall, she looks down in alarm at... whatever this is. It is warm, and soft, it feels like home - sitting at a campfire and listening to Keeper Deshanna, listening to the hunters laugh together, singing merrily over a drink. It is innocent, too, like the children of the clan, chasing after her and demanding they play with her magic. The thing is not opaque, it glistens with magic but she can see through it; in the centre, there is a pulsing light, like a little heartbeat.

 

"I did not mean to alarm you." comes the voice again. The see-through thing shifts in her arms as it does, and she changes stance abruptly, scared to drop it. 

 

"W-What are you?" she stutters. One of her arms move up a little to better hold it, but it slips down like goo, and she nearly drops it. 

 

"That is a spirit."

 

Her head snaps up. Solas comes to her, hands behind his back. He gazes down at it, curiously, head falling to the side. He reaches out, and his finger that goes to pet it goes through it.

 

She watches his hand retreat back. "Are all spirits made from the well?" she asks, struggling to balance it properly on her arms.

 

"Not all, no. Saying that they are  _ made _ in the well is not technically correct terminology, either." his back straightens. He almost looks like a dog who looks rather bristled, with the fur of his cloak hanging over his shoulders.

 

"Then what is?"

 

Her stomach growls. Embarrassed, she looks down at the spirit, and it lolls over in her arms, a small eye opening up amidst the glittering mass. 

 

"Hungry," it says.

 

"I shall take care of it," Solas offers, opening his arms. She hesitates, for a moment, but realises she does not know what to do with a rather dopey spirit. Awkwardly, she hands it over, letting it slide from her arms and into his. "Go and eat, you must be hungry if a spirit can feel it."

 

He takes the spirit and goes, to where she is unsure. She hopes he will not harm it.

 

Ariwyn cautiously enters the hall, properly this time. The sunlight coming through the tall windows at the far end is bright golden, filling the hall with enough light that any manufactured sources, magic or otherwise, is not needed. She wonders if she can find a spot to sit in quiet, where she can be alone and out of the way of everyone else. At most tables she passes, the elves look at her strangely, some in curiosity and others, in disdain. Her body is fighting with her mind; her stomach, physically paining her, demands she sits anywhere and stuffs her face until she can't eat anymore; her mind is demanding she stays as far away from anyone as she can. 

 

Finally, she finds a relatively secluded spot, seating herself in a spot where two ends of tables join. There are a group of elves to her left, and a single one to the right, opposite. Keeping to herself, she looks across the food displayed, uncertain of what to pick. Most of it is... she isn't even sure what to call a lot of the food, she thinks something is meat but then watches an elf further down tear it and it looks like bread. There is a soup, but after that spirit in the hallway, she isn't certain whether it truly is soup or something else lying in the bowl, like a cat in a box it shouldn't be in. A lot of it is a lot more grand than she is used to for a simple breakfast.

 

Taking a breath, she risks it, and reaches for what appears like a small roll of bread. It certainly feels like it in her hands; well baked, not burnt at all, and tough on the outside. Gently, she breaks it, and is surprised to find some sort of jammy substance on the inside. It is quite sweet, and upon finding her new favourite treat, she eats a few. She swears another appears in the basket, exactly where she took the last one from.

 

Perhaps it was a bad idea, to eat something so sweet. She feels a little sick afterwards, though it is the first thing she has eaten in what feels like days. Though, it is a rule in the clan not to waste food - the half of the roll left on her plate is waiting, and it takes her a few minutes of trying not to throw the others back up again before she finishes it. Immediately, she regrets it. 

 

She glances about the hall. There are elves, yes, but something else she did not notice before; small beings are flittering about the room, some simply floating, others prancing around like various animals, or taking flight like birds or butterflies. They are all the same translucent sea-foam as the spirit before, as the well. There are a few spirits that sit with the elves and they converse like it is not unusual, some spirits imitate the form of elves, sitting or standing around like pale ghosts with glowing eyes. 

 

One such spirit enters the hall, clinging to the shoulder of Solas. It is the same spirit as before, she realises, the one that had behaved as her guide. It has more form, now, looking less like a puddle and now more like a fawn; it has the body, and the ears, but has too few eyes, just one, peering about the room. Its eye finds her, and it chirps to the elf carrying it. He spots her, and walks to her.

 

She turns, expecting some instruction, finally. Instead, he simply pries the spirit off his shoulder, and drops it into her arms. Folding his arms behind his back, he strolls off, to the top of the hall where there are already a collective of more regal looking elves sat at a high table. Ariwyn huffs.

 

"Not hungry, not anymore," the spirit mumbles, and cuddles into her stomach. It feels strange, like gel pushing against her. 

 

"No, not anymore." she agrees, unsurely reaching to pet it. Her hand actually comes into contact with it rather than going straight through. It is soft. 

 

Quickly, like a fidgety child, it sits up, staring up at her with its sole, glowing eye. It blinks - or winks, she is unsure. "There is no need to be afraid," it says, "It is wonderful here, I promise."

 

_ Wonderful, but real? _

 

The spirit looks as if it wants to answer, but she shakes her head. She does not want the answer to that, she does not want to find out she is actually chronically insane, and imagining everything that has happened.

 

Curiously, she pokes it again. Her finger touches something physical to a certain extent, and then with a small  _ pop _ , it breaks through some sort of exterior, some barrier. Inside the spirit's head, it feels like thick water. It makes a sound, like a laugh, as if it tickles. 

 

"What did Solas do to you?" she asks, almost sounding accusing.

 

"Lord Solas helped." it says. Its head cocks to the side, as if mimicking the gesture the elf himself had done earlier, when examining the spirit. "He took me back to a well; I hadn't been in a very long time."

 

"To the well? The one in the garden?"

 

It nods. "That is one of many."

 

So it not only builds spirits, but fixes them too. She has half the mind to go find it again, with the spirit's help, and ask it a million questions on how it works. No shemlen has ever made such a machine, to bring beings from the Beyond into the world of the living.

 

"This is not the Waking," it mumbles, as if listening to her, "We were not brought here."

 

Groaning, she draws the spirit to her chest and rests her chin atop its head. She simply has more questions than answers, and no one to ask. 

 

The spirit stirs, turning in her arms to point its single eye to an elf, not far from her. "This one wonders where you learned the language of the People."

 

She blinks, and looks up to see the woman it speaks of. She looks aghast, glaring at the spirit with a pointedly annoyed expression, as if it had betrayed her by speaking her thoughts aloud. Ariwyn smiles, attempting to appear friendly. "I learned it the same as you; I was taught, by my elders."

 

"Impossible." the unknown elf spits, eyes looking her up and down as if she was covered in dirt. "The Waking Ones do not come close to the People. You stole it."

 

_ How can one steal a language? _ she thinks, but replies differently. "My Keeper taught me."

 

The elf looks like she doesn't know whether to laugh or yell. She goes with the former.

 

"Do you hear this?" she calls to a group of elves nearby. "The Waking One claims her  _ Keeper _ taught her the language of the People!"

 

The title seems to amuse them. A few laugh outright, others wear their amusement as simple smirks. Ariwyn suddenly feels very small.

 

"So primitive," she chuckles, shaking her head, "Let me guess; you scramble in the dirt looking for your food, like those belonging to Andruil?"

 

"There is no scrambling involved." she rebelliously flicks her nose up, defiant. She refuses to let this stranger insult the Dalish so. 

 

"She is proud!" another shouts, and more laughter erupts from the group of elves. Her face flushes, but her stomach twists up in anger, not embarrassment. Furious, she jumps to her feet - unsure of what she plans to do - and the spirit in her arms wriggles, dropping to the floor. It only makes the elves laugh harder, as the spirit runs up to them to tell them they're being "very rude."

 

It is drawing attention from across the hall. She spots Solas looking at them, and part of her wants to simply turn and storm out when his brows twist; he sighs, and turns his eyes away in disappointment. She is not here to make him proud - he has enough Pride as it is!

 

Scrambling, she tries to collect the spirit from where it is yapping at the group, trying to be louder than their hearty laughter, but barely making a noise. Hands brush her off, but she continues to try to pull the little thing back. She lets out a grunt as an elbow instead jabs into her stomach; she stumbles back, and hits the floor. Slowly, she pushes herself back up. The elves aren't really laughing about her anymore, though her fall did help. Now, they're toying with the spirit, pulling at its newly formed limbs and poking at it. They even ask if "the Waking One has infected" it.

 

Her hands are shaking. The air, thick with magic, sings to her. There is a crackle, and her hands are alight - she did not will for the fire, she did not ask. It simply happened.

 

There are cold fingertips at her brow. Suddenly, it gets icy, dark. She feels alone, in the hall filled with others, and spirits. Stumbling, her arms close around herself and there is no more fire. Instead, there is dread. Only fear. Her lip quivers, but before tears can spill, an arm settles behind her back and guides her very quickly out of the hall. 

 

It feels like she blacks out. Maybe she did, to chase away the fear. When she begins to feel at least relatively normal again, when the air around her begins to warm, she remembers she has to breathe; she is so relieved, she reaches for the magic physically, to grasp it with her hands. A hand grabs a hold of her wrist, as she does.

 

"You are calm again, then?"

 

Solas is there, watching her. He does not appear very pleased; he releases her hand, sharply, and suddenly she feels like a child, knowing they did wrong. She cannot say she did, however; it was self defence, it was an act in response to another's.

 

He sighs. "You have terrible self restraint." he rises, turning his back to her, folding his hands behind his back. The grip his hand has on the other is tight. "How could you let them bother you so, when you have magical talent?"

 

She huffs, drawing her knees to her chest. She doesn't feel especially talented right now. 

 

Quietly, she whispers, "What did you do to me?" and her voice sounds weak, trembling. 

 

He turns, and gazes upon her, almost with some regret. "I momentarily severed your connection the Fade. No connection, no magic. No death."

 

"I wasn't going to kill them." she snaps, ignoring the dozen of questions that spark in her head at the mention of connections. The only incident of that she can think of is what the shemlen do to their mages- make them empty, take their magic, their very being.

 

He responds in kind. His voice raises. "You have no idea what it is like here!" he loses his composure, and he points a finger at her, accusingly, "Magic itself is not a tool, it is a tangible thing. Every action can have power, every blink, every breath! The only reason you have not already lit someone or something on fire is because you have not thought to do so!"

 

"Are you implying I would intentionally hurt someone?"

 

"Your actions prove that is the truth, yes."

 

Her hands are shaking again, but no magic comes. It seems the effect of his spell have not worn off yet; there is still some numbness to her bones. Silently, she folds further into herself, hiding her face in her knees. How was she to know what magic could do in a reality not her own?

 

"She is right." a quiet voice whispers.

 

A familiar warmth settles on her back. She does not need to look - the spirit. She hears an annoyed sigh from Solas.

 

"About?" he asks.

 

"You haven't explained anything." it says, and tries to wriggle under her arms. She shakes her head, staying curled up. "You scold her but she does not know the rules. One cannot play a game properly if the masters have not told them what they can and cannot do."

 

For a while, he says nothing in response. The spirit only tries again, to get into her arms. She gives in, and sits up a little, to allow it; some of its being seeps past its barrier, and she feels  warm again, if only for a time. Magic feels closer, again.

 

"I suppose there is some truth in what you say." Solas admits, bowing his head for a mere moment. "But, it is simple etiquette not to set fire to your hosts."

 

She snorts, and quickly covers her mouth. When she moves her hand away, she has attempted to straighten her smile, and pretend to still be furious. Trying to set them on fire was  _ maybe _ a bit much, but she doesn't regret defending herself. It wasn't her fault for not knowing magic is more finicky here. 

 

He sighs. "Very well," he extends a hand, palm upwards and fingers curled, gracefully offering her help. She accepts it, and stands. "I suspect you have questions."

 

More than she would like to admit.    
  



	6. Chapter 6

Ariwyn has trouble sleeping that night. Again. She has too many things floating around in her head, too much information, so much of it truth but not. In her room she sits, atop her bed, blankets still folded neat under her. She had not done that herself, perhaps magic had. It seemed to be used for most basic chores around here. The windows let in moonlight now, not sun; her room is high up, and down below the wild shifts, moves, breathes like it is alive. The stars dance around one another, the moon shimmering like a reflection in a lake that had just been disturbed.

 

_"When I told you we were in the Beyond yesterday, that was not the complete truth." Solas had admitted earlier, his fingers twining together atop his knee. "You are your Keeper's First, so you know of the fall of the People?"_

_"Of course." she agreed. She began to stop asking why he knew such things, what a Keeper meant, what a First meant. He must have enough experience with the reality she knows to use the words like he knew._

_"When Fen'Harel created the Veil, it was to end the war between the Forgotten Ones, and the Evanuris," he explained. At the mention of the Dread Wolf, he looked a little uncomfortable. "I know your people accuse Fen'Harel for many things; the deception of both gods, the murder of Mythal."_

_"But Mythal is alive,"_

_"Yes. He did not kill her."_

 

Huffing, she tosses herself back on her bed. Mythal, the one of the Evanuris who had placed the most trust in Fen'Harel, had been betrayed the most when he had murdered her. Still, if what Solas says is true, then there was no great betrayal. The trust was not misplaced - perhaps her people had been wrong.

 

_"The Veil was created to separate the warring tribes," he continued, "It had been intended to place the Evanuris and the People on the side of the Waking World, and trap the Forgotten Ones in the Beyond where they could harm the People no more."_

_She does not need to say it, but she does. "It did not work."_

_"No. At least not as foresaw; in creating the Veil, Fen'Harel trapped almost all traces of magic beyond the Veil, in what some people in your world call the Fade. In a desperate attempt to save the People, the Evanuris made the devastating decision to keep ourselves here, and cast the Forgotten Ones to the realm without magic."_

It had seemed to simple, when Solas explained it. Two sides of a war, split in two forms of reality. It seems like too easy a solution, she thinks, and of course it came with its problems.

 

He had said that with the creation of the Veil, those in the Waking World had lost their connection to magic. The elves trapped on the wrong side lost their immortality, and only some were gifted with magical capability. This she all knew already, it was normal in the realm she came from. On this side too, there are problems; the Fade changes this place often, magic ruling and preceding over what reality is capable of. This world is not deep in the Beyond, he said, simply below the surface of the Veil, as to struggle to remain as close to the Waking as possible.

 

Ariwyn took his word for it. After being in this realm, this layer of the Fade, for this long, she is beginning to think that she is not simply having a very strange and detailed dream. She supposes there is no rush; there is no true concept of time here, he said. She decides, now, she is content to learn more simply as he shares, and ask when she needs. There is no pressing need to demand all the answers from the man.

 

She did finally ask what was required of her, however.

 

_"I have never had a servant, before," he admitted. "I have always served Mythal, it has never been a case of someone to serve me."_

_"Surely there is something my role requires of me." she was desperate, for something to do. For something to keep in the back of her mind._

_Solas' hand had reached up to gently run two of his fingers across his brow, thinking. "I suppose you will accompany me when I call for you, and do the tasks I ask of you. There is not much else I can think of, unless you have any particular talents."_

_She came up blank. With a nod, she quickly asks another question, before he strays too far from the topic. "How do I address people? I am honestly unsure of most polite court etiquette. I know I cannot call Mythal her name directly to her face, that seems... improper."_

_He does not seem surprised by the sudden change in conversation, or at least does not show it. "We address Mythal as Goddess, like we do the other Evanuris. Or, if we are speaking to Mythal in particular, you may call her Mother Protector." he tells her, " To high members of the court, you address them as Lord, or Lady. For those that serve them specifically..."_

It was a lot to try to memorise in one sitting. The clan was never like this - the only time she can think of such high respect was at meetings with other clans, and those rules relaxed after the initial greeting of separate clans. She supposes the court of an Evanuris will not be a clan gathering party.

 

She learned Solas should actually be titled Lord Solas. He is one of Mythal's closest advisors, and Generals. He is learned and wise, according to her new spirit friend. He has travelled to the deepest reaches of the Fade and brought back knowledge of a thousand years. To some, his role is the envy of the court, a position of great power and respect; there are those in the court that would be willing to commit any deed to see him be knocked from his role. She realises, now, why she had received such stares at the morning banquet, if they knew who she now serves.

 

He told her, should she need to address him directly in public, she should call him "Master." It feels a little strange to imagine her saying it; she has heard stories from the Dalish about the shemlen that keep other, poorer shemlen, or even elves, as pets, or slaves. They too would call the person they served the same title. It made her feel a little better when he told her, in private, there would be no need for such formality if she would wish to keep it that way.

 

At least he does not see her as an oddity.

 

As one last question to sate her curiosity, she had asked him why, if they planned on treating those from her world as citizens one day, they had kept them as prisoners. It was merely a precaution, he'd said, to ensure none of them would endanger themselves. She had nearly huffed; it was probably just a way to keep them out of the way until Mythal had decided she was ready to see them.

 

When she finally drifts off to sleep, it feels like she wakes barely an hour later. Her windows do not have curtains, so she is woken by bright sunshine. The room has been tidied a little, and she is a little disconcerted that she cannot tell whether it was done overnight whilst she slept, or whether it was done whilst she was gone. She is tired, and half contemplates going back to sleep, before deciding to dress. She would very much like to find that spirit again.

 

Perhaps she should eat, but she is unwilling to go back to that dining hall again. She checks her clothes, _her_ belongings from the clan, are still stashed under her bed - they are, thankfully - and leaves her room. She knows roughly, by now, the way to the garden. It is usually very empty; all three occasions she has been to it now, not a soul but those she was with were there. Solas had said though, that it was enchanted, in some way, so even if there was another person with her, she would not see them. They would not see her either, at least. She asked what kind of use that was - "Privacy," he said.

 

She finds the garden easily, and wanders until she finds the well again. Above, she feels something, soft and light, like snow, tickling her head. The willow branches above still have remnants of the bird, that Solas had made. Strange, she thinks, she wonders why that spirit disappeared so fast.

 

Her hands, delicate and gentle, run around the stone wall of the well. Inside, the water churns gently, humming ever so softly, like a halla appreciating a hunter's pets. For just a mere moment, she learns forward over it, and a wave of magic hits her so strongly she almost collapses straight into it. She jumps back, feeling dizzy and her heart pounds. This world is so strange, she thinks, taking a moment to catch her breath. One day, she gets her magic taken from her and feels so hollow, and the next, she is almost given far too much. She feels fit to burst.

 

Solas had reached straight into the well. His hand had pulled out a spirit, as if he had created it just like that. Maybe the spirit she spoke to yesterday told the truth when it said he was very knowledgeable; that he can withstand so much magic and still have incredibly self-control is envious.

 

While she stands there, feeling her heart calm and the strange magic seeps back into the well, her ears prick up. Footsteps - someone is coming. What happened to the so-called privacy Solas had promised?

 

"Do not be alarmed." a voice says, but it does not have the same hollow, distant sound to it that the spirit had. It speaks like a person.

 

A few feet away, a hand leaning on the well, an elf, dressed in ruby finery, appears before her. His very existence seems to shimmer into existence, like a waterfall, dripping his form and colour there. It looks almost like a ward that had shattered, and rained the pieces down to where he stands. Maybe a ward was shattered - perhaps he had broken the enchantment over the garden to be here, in the same space as her.

 

"Everyone seems to think they alarm me here," she mumbles.

 

The elf smiles. "Yes. Though after yesterday's wonderful introduction into our little society, one would think you were very easy to alarm."

 

She tries not to show how much his comment bothers her. Her eyes gaze upward, to the willow branches.

 

"How are you here?" Ariwyn asks, looking back down to the elf once he has stopped smiling. "So- Master Pride told me you can't see other people, here."

 

"You can, if you know your way around a basic enchantment easy enough." he shrugs, and stands from the well. The water sloshes up against the edge he is closest to, as if running after him. "Besides, you happened to wander a little too close to my well."

 

"This is _your_ well?"

 

He nods. "I am the Guardian of it, anyhow. I protect it, nurture the spirits that enter through here."

 

She blinks, and refrains from asking a million questions at once. 

 

"I thought it was a machine," she admits, and ventures a little closer to it. He watches her move. "I thought it makes spirits, but you talk about it like it's... a portal? Like an Eluvian?"

 

She has never seen a working Eluvian before, but she has heard about them. She had envied the clan that had found one, wanted to see at least what it looked like, but when they had arrived to meet the clan the apprentice who had found it had left and took it with her. For a long while, it had been her own quest to find one for her clan. Imagine if I could get one working, she had told her father enthusiastically, whilst he rolled his eyes when he thought she wasn't looking.

 

"Close." the Guardian nods, wrinkles appearing under his eyes as he smiles a little. "You seem to know more than most Waking Ones to come here."

 

Ariwyn shrugs. "I bothered to learn. Most do not."

 

"I see that."

 

"What does it do, then?"

 

He turns, and plants both palms flat on the edge of the well. "It is similar to a portal, like you said," he explains, gazing down into the sea-foam green water, swirling silently, "We had them built when we discovered spirits had trouble sustaining themselves here. On the edge of reality, we of physical bodies have no problems but spirits - spirits struggle to keep a form as it is, never mind so close to a barrier designed to keep them trapped on one side."

 

"The Veil,  that is what is hurting the spirits?"

 

"Not hurting. Simply... deteriorating."

 

Curiously, she glances into the water. It is very thick, and she cannot see father down than a few inches. She is careful not to get too close this time, for fear of the same magic singing to her again. She does not need a repeat of what happened yesterday - she assumes it is not a common skill to be able to stop someone's magic, like Solas. That would make fights between elves rather dull, and they seem to hate anything dull.

 

"I met a spirit yesterday," she says, crossing her arms loosely, "It guided me to where I wanted to go. It did not feel solid, but when Master Pride took it and brought it back again, it had shape. What did he do?"

 

"Brought it here, of course." the Guardian gestures to the well, dipping a finger into the water. He wriggles it, like he is petting something small, and fluffy, and the water hums louder. "If a spirit returns to the Fade, or even simply bathes here, it restores some of their essence. It reminds them of what they are."

 

"What was that spirit, then?"

 

He hums. "I believe it was Benevolence. A little young, that one, but helpful. It seems to have taken a liking to you."

 

Benevolence. It is so different to names of things she has heard before, from beyond the Veil. Rage, Desire, Terror, _Pride_. Those are the names of demons, Solas had said. Were demons a part of her world, then? Or was that simply the form spirits took in the Waking world? She shudders to think what her world would do to Benevolence.

 

The Guardian jumps, as if someone had tapped him unexpectedly. Eagerly, he cups his hands together, and reaches deep into the well - the water reaches up past his elbows. When he pulls, and stands, in his arms there is a puddle of the water; it moves, like the well, but its edges are hard, holding the water swirling around itself like a bubble made of jelly. For a moment, it remains in his arms, content, before it bursts. Into the air sours hundreds of butterflies, all the same lucid green, and in awe she watches them go. They flitter into sky so high that she can no longer watch, for the sun shining bright in her eyes.

 

"That was beautiful!" she breathes, letting out a laugh in disbelief. "They too were spirits, yes?"

 

"One spirit," he corrects, grinning widely, "Some do not like one form, they enjoy many, like limbs with no limit on how far they can stretch."

 

She imagines that would be very useful. Probably not very comfortable, but definitely interesting.

 

"I hear them," he says, tapping the tip of his right ear with a finger. It sticks out from between his long locks of copper hair. She cannot see his other ear, she realises with some unease. "They call to Guardians from the other side, and we help them across. And back again, if they need it."

 

The well is quieter, now. It still swirls, but not with much ferocity.

 

"I appreciate you telling me this," she murmurs, confidence shaky in her voice, "It seems your people do not enjoy the company of- what do they call us? Waking? You are one of the few people who have deigned to explain anything."

 

He smiles, wistfully. "I wish I could tell everyone that comes through the Veil about the spirit wells." he says, "I wish we could simply share what we know. The differences are not always as big as they seem, a Waking One once told me."

 

Ariwyn had never considered such a thing. She is probably not the first person from her world to come here, to listen to his explanation of the wells. She is probably not the first to be awed by the display of helping a spirit cross from the Beyond. She wonders, just how many Fen'Harel has brought here. Why, is still the question she wants answers to. Mythal had said to prevent a danger, but she had never heard of such danger, and she is sure she has spent more time in her realm than Mythal.

 

When she looks up from the well, her heart leaps. There is noise behind her, a fizzing sound; it is like fire, ripping apart a barrier. The Guardian does not look concerned, merely amused, and his eyes settle on something behind her. Turning in her spot, it is hard for her eyes to comprehend, at first. There is burning, but it is the air, alight and tearing apart. Eventually, the small rip stretches and, after a moment, out of the ring of fire steps Solas. It closes behind him.

 

"I could not find you." is all he says to her.

 

The Guardian chuckles, without moving to see him from behind her. "My doing, little wolf, do not worry yourself."

 

Solas' face twists downwards into a scowl. "Your barriers grow stronger. Might there be a reason for that?"

 

"More than to protect the spirits I am sworn to guide? None."

 

Ariwyn feels very much like a child, stood between adults arguing. Adults which are aware she can understand, and avoid saying what they wish to, to avoid her knowing. It is frustrating; for all they tell her, the people here make efforts to ensure she is still an outcast. Even if he does not mean to, Solas feels like he is chiding her.

 

Nevertheless, he sighs, and returns his attention to her. "Mythal has summoned us."

 

Her brow raises.

 

"Me." he corrects himself, "And other Lords and Ladies of her council. You will attend with me."

 

Oh, joys. More time to listen to a conversation that people make an effort for her to not understand.

 

As she goes to join him, Solas nods to the Guardian, still leaned over the well, fingers intertwined with a very amused glint in his eyes.

 

"Thank you for keeping her out of trouble," he says, almost reluctantly. His hand grasps her upper arm, finger touching his thumb with ease. He pulls her back, just gently, and there is a flash of light. The Guardian is gone, and just before her, a tiny flame that goes out.

 

It is much darker, now. It is like waking, suddenly, to be brought back to a reality. She looks up, and sees stars.

 

"I was there all day?" she murmured, confused.

 

"Not really. Days are not consistent in length, here." he shrugs, and releases her. "The Guardian prefers the daytime. Whichever iteration of the garden he is in, it remains that way."

 

"Magic here is... it is very, very strange."

 

Solas grows a small smile. "I suppose it is, compared to yours."

 

 _Just how much do you know about mine_ , she wonders, as night time stalks into the palace.


	7. Chapter 7

Solas sets a quick pace. His mind seems preoccupied - he does not watch her to gauge an appropriate speed, this time. He takes her back to her chambers, and tells her to change. When she asks what is wrong with her attire, he tells her it is ill-suited for a _meeting of the calibre_ they are to attend. It takes a few attempts - first, she goes in, and is lost, unsure of what to pick. She changes, and comes back out and he is still unsatisfied. When she is finally properly dressed, it is in an outfit he himself had resigned himself to select for her.

 

She feels foolish. It is a gown, so long it trails behind her, and she has to pull it up slightly to avoid tripping over the skirts. At least it is loose, no tight corsets like those rich shem women wear. In the reflection of the mirror, it shimmers, black licking up from the bottom hems like fire, burning out into a deep emerald. It is possibly both the most excessive and prettiest thing she has ever worn.

 

Ariwyn leaves her chambers, losing the door behind her. In her arms, she carries the final item Solas had chosen; a mantle, that should sit upon her shoulders and warm her arms. It is made from a very similar fur to that which he wears over his armour, or his more relaxed, but still regal, clothes. _This is too much_ , she thinks, unwilling to wear it but worried Solas would think otherwise.

 

He is stood across from her, against the wall, where two come together to meet a corner. No armour, today, but a beautifully embroidered tunic, over which he wears a closed vest, black and patterned with silvery leaves. Underneath, he wears trousers made of a dark leather, covered with the same intricate patterning of his vest. Like her, he wears footwraps with them. And, of course, over his shoulders drapes a short cloak made from fur as dark as the night sky.

 

His eyes flick up when he hears the door close. They look over her, once, twice, before he nods in approval, and smiles. "Now you look befitting of one attending one of Mythal's meetings."

 

Her face feels warm. "I feel silly."

 

"Nonsense." Solas stands, and approaches. His deft fingers reach for the fur in her arms and pry it from her, and with one quick flick of his wrists, settles it around her neck. It is warm, and covers the skin exposed from the low neckline of the dress, at least. "Come." he says.

 

There is less urgency, now. She supposes they are on schedule, and he actually slows his pace enough so that he walks alongside her. He expresses some polite interest in how she finds her quarters, and the palace. They do not speak of the Guardian, or yesterday's breakfast. She is hungry. She had forgotten completely about it, and it should probably worry her how little she has eaten. After the meeting, she can eat. She only hopes her stomach does not protest during it, to save both herself and Solas from embarrassment.

 

"There is something that the Guardian said earlier," she begins, softly, wary of broaching the subject. He does not look at her, but he nods. "He called you _little wolf_. What did he mean?"

 

For a moment, he looks uncertain of how he should respond. Then, he sighs.

 

"It is a jest, amongst the eldest here." he says, looking quite annoyed at it. "Some of us like to take different forms, some times. Magic allows us. I choose a wolf."

 

She blinks. She had heard of rumours of shape-shifters in the Waking world, but had never considered how much easier it would be here. Suddenly, she focuses very hard on remaining as she is - she has been here long enough to know now that magic does not work as she is used to. She does not want to arrive to the meeting accidentally an animal, or even a person with one too many limbs.

 

"Is it something that can be taught?" she ponders aloud, and he gives her a wary smile.

 

"Why? Would you like to change yours?"

 

Humming, she considers it. "Perhaps."

 

Their talk falls quiet, then. He tells her he would consider teaching her, some day, and then goes silent, his face hardens, and his pace becomes stronger, faster. He is trying to make the effort to get in front of her, she thinks, and does not argue. She sees why; further down the corridor, where it branches into three more - like a cross - a party of elves cross their path. They slow, and glance their way when one notices.

 

"Lord Pride! You were not there for drinks, we had begun to wonder if you would ever arrive!" he jokes, throwing his arms up in welcome. It seems harmless enough, but Solas does not seem to think he is being purely friendly. She keeps her hands free at her sides.

 

"I would never refuse her Goddess' summons, Lord Nelaros." he replies, calmly, and comes to a stop before the group. There are four. She does the same, and stays behind him.

 

They take interest in her. Their eyes wander, and catch sight of her, some leaning around to examine her like she is a decorative pieces.

 

"She is rather pretty, for a Waking one." one of the women say, "Do you not think, Nelaros?"

 

The Lord hums, and places a hand at his chin as if he were deciding whether a vase - with feelings - before him is art, or made of scrap.

 

"I do not quite know." he finally says, "May I take a closer look, Lord Pride?"

 

Solas stiffens, just a little. "I am sure she would not like to be poked and prodded."

 

"No poking or prodding required." Nelaros lifts his hands, innocent. Falsely so, perhaps. Without Solas' - or her - say-so, he steps forth from the group, and drifts closer. A little too close, she feels his breath on her. He strolls around her, judging. She subtly straightens her back, keeping her eyes straight, trying to pretend as if it does not bother her. It really does. There is a tug - he stepped on her dress.

 

"Satisfied?" Solas utters when he completes his circle.

 

He chuckles, shaking his head. "She has not even begun to try, yet."

 

It takes her a moment to understand, but when she does, she almost loses all composure to hurl a fireball at the back of his head. But, he has begun to walk away, and at a good time too, for Solas looks ready to do the same.

 

Before they follow, Solas pulls her aside for a moment. Nelaros, he says, is one to be wary of. One of the elves there had been his attendant, and the Lady who had spoken was called Melle. A gossip, but no one to watch. The other elf with them had been Deveni, another Lady of Mythal's council. He recites a long list of names, but she simply stares as his lips move, unable to register every single one of them. There are eight, in total. Just for one Evanuris.

 

She gets a chance to ask what the meeting entails. She figures she should have at least some knowledge of the proceedings, even if she is not supposed to be entirely informed. He obliges, and offers some information he knows; the specifics of this meeting are a mystery to him, but usually, there is a lot of talk, some argument between the more rowdy members of the council. Mythal will usually stay quiet, he says. She likes to listen.

 

They enter the meeting chamber. Its ceiling, like most spaces here, is vaulted, curving inward and feeling very open. This room, however, was designed to appear even more appealing than most she has laid eyes on, so far. In the centre of the room, there is a large round table, where nine chairs are set - one is more decorative than the rest, with jewels and strips of velvet on the armrests. Mythal's. In the centre of the room, where the ceiling reaches the highest point, it comes apart to a hole, where she can see the stars; motes of glittering dust fall down from it, in different vibrant colours. As soon as they hit the table, they vanish.

 

Solas sits at the table, in the chair to the left of Mythal's. Her eyes flick to the nobles already sat, and notices where their servants go. Copying them, she stands beside Solas' chair, folds her hands neatly together in front of her, and waits. The table is not full; at least four chairs, including Mythal's, are still empty. He beckons her forward, with two fingers.

 

"Do not speak." he warns, "I will not be able to protect you from their wrath if you do."

 

No talking. Got it.

 

He says "their" like he is not one of them. As if he distances himself from this council, from Mythal. As if he is not one of the People. It is strange; perhaps she will ask, later. When she is allowed to speak again, she thinks in annoyance.

 

A spirit makes their way around the room, helpful and generous, offering drinks to those already assembled. Solas takes a glass of strange-coloured wine, and she is offered the same; the spirit does not look like it will handle her refusal well - it does not have a form, and it looks like it wobbles, a little - so she takes it. Her glass is much smaller than his, though she thinks she will probably need it more than him to make it through this meeting. She tries not to let the obvious insult annoy her much.

 

When the table finally fills, Mythal is still missing. The Lords and Ladies of the council converse; Solas only briefly participates in some conversations, and has a relatively lengthy one with the Lady beside him. Ariwyn can hear some of them gossiping, they are not subtle, but at least she is not the only one they talk about. They discuss all of the new Waking ones that joined their People, and talk about different roles and jobs they will be assigned. She had not considered this as long-term. She is unsure why - she has long since given in that this is definitely not a dream.

 

She is an oddity. Some of them ask Solas why he agreed to take her - "You did not have to," one says, "Mythal would not have been insulted if you had refused a Waking one." He simply shrugs it off, not answering with an agree or disagree. Another even sulks, telling him their daughter, or son, would have made a better servant than her.

 

"I disagree, Lady Deveni," comes a soft voice from the entryway to the chamber. Deveni pales, because Mythal hovers into the hall with silent footsteps, and she looks as beautiful as ever. Skin like moonlight, dusted with rosy makeup and donning a gown that looks far too complicated to put on and take off.

 

"I-I apologise, my Goddess," Deveni stutters, "I meant no disrespect."

 

"No, you did not." Mythal nods, and with a flick of her hand, her chair slides backwards. She settles into it, and it slides back under the table. "I do not have to explain myself to anyone present, but if you must know, the Waking one is more than she appears. Now, I will hear no more of it."

 

Ariwyn is unsure whether she should feel complimented, or more confused than she has been in days. Solas looks sufficiently amused; a smile toys at his lips at how irked Mythal's words make the rest of the council.

 

The meeting is long. As Solas had said, there was lots of talking. Lots, and lots, and _lots_ of talking. Also, there is arguing. It seems to mostly be between Nelaros and another male member of the council. Surprisingly, _Pride_ stays quiet in most arguments, even when debates get heated and insults begin to fly. Mythal watches, eyes flickering with amusement, mostly. She might as well just be a fly on the wall, Ariwyn thinks, for all the contribution she is giving.

 

Then, Ariwyn's ears prick up. The loud-mouth - the name she has given the other one arguing with Nelaros - has begun rambling about the Waking world; _her_ world. Attentively, she looks up from where she had been watching a tiny spirit chase another like a kitten. There is discussion about its safety, "the likelihood of survival of the People," whether the risks are worth it. She has missed part of it; she looks to Solas, subtly, to see if he has been paying attention, but if he has, he does not give her any hints.

 

"Well we have a Waking one!" a Lady from across the table calls, waving a hand at where Ariwyn stands. "We have many Waking ones. Why do we not just ask them?"

 

"I was thinking that myself, actually," Nelaros interjects, leaning forth onto his elbows, to get a good look at her. She is unsure whether she should look straight back, into his eyes. "What do you think, Waking one? Is the world beyond the Veil as we remember, or has it fallen so far into disrepair that we may as well scrap it and start over?"

 

She swallows, and glances at Solas. He gives her a small nod.

 

"My clan are on that side," she says, "Many clans are. There are those of the People who do not even belong to clans that wear no markings. There are those who are not even of the People. Yes, there are dangers that may be different to what you remember, but they do not deserve their world to be erased if they do not meet your standards." after a moment, she adds, "My Lord."

 

Solas does a poor job of hiding his smile.

 

"If they are on that side, they are not of the People." Nelaros growls, a hand curling into a fist. "The Forgotten Ones were imprisoned there, why would our People remain?"

 

"I am uncertain, I was not there when you built your wall." regardless, she shrugs, "Why would you bring us across to your empire when we serve the Forgotten Ones?"

 

Nelaros' mouth opens and closes, soundlessly, like a fish.

 

The Lady besides Solas looks quite alarmed. "You were not there when the Veil was erected?"

 

"No, my Lady."

 

"I- I do not understand. You are young, then? Surely there are those that yet live that witnessed its rise."

 

She frowns. "No, my Lady. The only ones that are have long since been buried."

 

"People die of mortality, of age, of sickness, across the Veil," Solas says, "This has been brought to our attention before. That is a danger we must consider."

 

Ariwyn almost blurts without thinking. These elves, they're immortal? So far as she has seen, there are no humans here so that would make sense, but - immortality! Such a thought is quite incredible; she could learn so much with all that time, tell her people so much.

 

"Bah," Nelaros waves a hand, exasperated and frustrated. "We should just get on with it! Who cares about the mortal Waking ones? They are just a small price to pay for our glory."

 

"You cannot sacrifice the lives of thousands for the sake of sating your ego."

 

She has spoken before she thinks. Her involvement in the conversation has made her forget the one rule Solas put in place before the talks began. Quietly, she takes a step back, as if to make the nine pairs of eyes on her forget she is even present. No one speaks, for a long time.

 

"She is right, Lord Nelaros."

 

All eyes - including hers - snap to the head of the table. Mythal, who had remained silent this entire time, taps her fingernails, the colour of blood red, against the tabletop. Her golden eyes do not look at anyone, but watches the beat her fingers create - thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. And again. It feels very much like Ariwyn's pounding heartbeat.

 

"If those beyond are of the People, we must give them that chance." the goddess says. "Elvehnan must not stand above the lives of those we have yet to save."

 

Nelaros sinks back into his seat, reminded of his place by the goddess. Still, there is rage bubbling beneath the surface, Ariwyn knows. It is directed at her, but she hopes that the talks will go on long enough that he will get riled up by some other matter.

 

Mythal does not wish for that, though. Yawning, she politely lifts a hand to cover her mouth, and says, "I think we have been talking for long enough. We shall resume at a later date."

 

Some of the council rise immediately. They leave eagerly, others, slower, but still leave swiftly, like the Lady beside Solas. Others, like Nelaros, stay. As does her master.

 

"My goddess," Solas says, clearing his throat. Mythal's eyes open, and flash to him in curiosity, though the rest of her face remains neutral. "There is a matter I wish to confer with you on, in private. May I come and speak with you?"

 

"Later, Pride. I shall summon you when I am ready."

 

He nods, and rises from his seat. He leaves without complaint, as if Mythal hadn't just been incredibly rude, but she supposes Evanuris can do what they like, here. Stiff, she follows after him, keeping her mouth shut about complaints of how sore her feet are until after they leave the chamber, and even then, she waits until they are well out of ear shot of the other Lords and Ladies.

 

"That," she says, shoulders slumping, "Felt absolutely useless."

 

Solas scoffs, but a genuine smile tugs at his lips. "You do not need to tell me."

 

"You do not like them much, do you?" she inquires. After she does, she glances around, ensuring no one has followed them this deep into the corridors.

 

He takes in a deep breath, and his shoulders rise. "They do not like me."

 

Translation: _No, I do not like them._

 

"Why?"

 

"Another time, perhaps." he waves a hand at her, and he really looks as if he'd rather talk about anything else. "For now, go and change your clothes, again. We will need to be prepared for when Mythal calls us."

 

"I have to change?" she asks, appalled. " _Again_?"

 

Solas' brows pull together, as if she said something strange. "Of course. Why would you not?"

 

Sighing, her shoulders droop. "Never mind."


	8. Chapter 8

Until Mythal calls them, Ariwyn and Solas stay together. She changes, and she follows him to his quarters, where he too dresses in something different. Both outfits are not all that remarkably different to what they already had on; Solas says it is just to appear refreshed. It indicates a readiness to begin a new conversation, with no negative feelings carried over from the last.

 

A strange way to try to pretend arguments do not happen, but she does not question it.

 

"What is your job?" she asks, curious. Her head falls to the side and watches him flick through pages of the tome in his hands. It looks heavy.

 

"Hm?" Solas seems too preoccupied with it, and so she repeats her question. "Oh. I am one of Mythal's Generals."

 

Rolling her eyes, Ariwyn begins swinging her legs back and forth, under the table she is sat on. "Yes, I know that. But General of what? And why, what does Mythal possibly need an army for?"

 

"Mostly, it is a decorative title," he says, with a shrug, "But it reminds others of their station in comparison to mine, that is the important part."

 

For a while, they sit in silence. Solas sets the book down on the desk before him and leans over it, palms flat on the surface on either side whilst he studies the words on the page. He looks like he is concentrating very hard; she doubts he is having difficulty reading, but possibly trying to interpret another meaning that is not explicitly stated. That is what she was like, too, with what little books the clan had scavenged on Elvhenan. A lot of shemlen had actually written about them, but only a few were actually fair and unbiased. 

 

"What are you reading?" Ariwyn asks, softly. She does not wish to disturb him much.

 

He stands, dusting his hands as if they had touched the not perfectly-clean surface for too long. So much for not disturbing.

 

"I believe it is a book, from the Waking world," he says, and his fingers go to his brow, to rub almost anxiously at his hairline. "I speak your tongue well enough, but - reading it is difficult, at times."

 

"Would you like me to read it to you?" 

 

For a moment, he looks almost a little horrified by the idea. Then, quickly, he shakes his head. 

 

"We should not get too comfortable doing something for very long." he decides. "Mythal will call for us, soon."

 

So eager and ready to jump at her beck and call, she thinks. Either way, she heads to the book when he leaves it alone on the desk, and flicks through the pages. Theories, on the Fade, the Veil; a book written by shemlen of the Tevinter Imperium. It might prove an interesting enough read, but books like these were never found amongst the Dalish. The only one they could afford to find were those on their own culture, even if the Veil was theoretically a part of it. A magical barrier, no matter how strong or who made it, did not tell one how the ancient elves sang and danced.

 

"You still have many questions." Solas says, suddenly. Her eyes flick up. It is not a question on his end. It is simply a statement of fact.

 

"Of course." says she, bluntly. She begins with the simplest one. "I do not know why am I even really here."

 

"The Dread Wolf."

 

He says that like it explains it.

 

Seeing the blankness in her expression, he begins to explain. "The gods are planning something that most cannot comprehend. Mortals from beyond the Veil would not, either. The Dread Wolf takes pity on those trapped beyond, those of the People left behind when he pulled the Veil between us, and brings those he can before devastation is unleashed upon the land in which they live."

 

"Is this the same devastation Nelaros was talking about when he was ranting about his quest for ego, earlier?"

 

His eyes narrow. "That was very foolish." he snaps, as if suddenly remembering her slip-up. "I told you not to talk."

 

"I did, so what? No one did anything."

 

"You do not understand. How could you possibly understand? The last servant that spoke out of turn during council was-"

 

There is a knock at the door. Solas' accusing finger lowers slightly from where it is poked directly at her, and he glances towards it. Sighing, and composing himself, he heads to it, folding his arms behind his back as if nothing had happened. She follows, but cannot help but be curious as to what punishment the poor soul had received. It does not sound like it boded well.

 

As expected, it is a messenger. He tells them Mythal expects him - speaking only to Solas, of course - and they leave. He is walking quickly,  _ again _ . It is impossible to keep up without jogging, most of the time; can he not see how much shorter her legs are to his? For every single stride her takes, she takes two, three. It tires her very fast. She dares not ask him to slow, however. She feels like her reminder of the happenings of the court has irked him.

 

To her surprise, they return to the council chamber. It is quieter, now. The hearth is no longer glowing, and the sconces along the wall barely flicker with tiny embers. The room is well and truly lit by only moonlight, pooling in from the hole in the ceiling and basking everything in eerie blue shadow. It feels cold. 

 

"This time," he says, as they head towards stairs behind the table that she had not really noticed before, "Please remain quiet."

 

She nods, and says nothing. A sign of his words taking effect. He, at least, lets out a small breath. Relief?

 

As they approach the top of the stairs, there is a small plateau. It overlooks the council table, where the nine chairs sit. Mythal's is closest; the platform almost overhangs it. Up here, there are large windows that let in so much moonlight that the tiled ground is ghostly white, and her skin looks just as pale. Opposite the windows, with its back to the rest of the chamber, is a chaise lounge, and a table beside. Upon the table sits a glass of ruby wine, a closed book, a small bowl of what looks like fruit, and a very ornate dagger. In its hilt sits an encrusted jewel, and its colour changes. 

 

Mythal is sat, lounging upon the sofa. She looks at complete ease, eyes barely flickering to them as they enter. When she does, however, she smiles, with the same slyness as she has seen more than she would like to, thus far.

 

"My goddess," Solas greets, and bows low at the waist. Ariwyn supposes she should too, and tries to copy what she has seen shemlen women do; a strange bow, where one barely bends and lifts their skirts ever so slightly. It is a curtsey, she thinks.

 

He goes forth, and opens his mouth to speak, before he halts altogether. He takes a breath, and looks to Mythal with confusion, and a hint of insult upon his features. His brows are pulled tight.

 

"I thought we were to speak alone," he says, and she finally sees. Across from them, at the top of the other set of stairs at the opposite end of the room, she sees Nelaros. He stands, arms folded across his chest, content to watch, for the moment. His face is cast almost entirely in shadow. She can see, though, in the moonlight; there is a glint of a smile. It makes her nervous.

 

"We will, soon." Mythal nods, and waves a hand at him, dismissively. "First, there is other business to which I must attend. You." she points at Ariwyn, still behind Solas. "Come here."

 

Her heart drops. For a moment, she does not think she  _ can _ move. Then, she sees Solas' eyes on her; in them, she sees a mix of trepidation, and sorrow. As if he has already determined her fate. It does not seem like it will reach a good end. 

 

Hesitantly, she steps forward, climbing the last two steps to stand upon the same platform as Mythal. Like a Keeper, the goddess gently beckons her closer, and points to the ground before where she sits; the whole while, she smiles, like she is readying to tell an excited child an excellent tale. When Ariwyn finally settles on her knees before the chaise lounge, Mythal extends a hand, and begins delicately braiding a few strands of her hair.

 

"What is your name?" she asks. 

 

It is strange that it only occurs to her now; no one here has yet asked her that question. Solas has not - he seems to has the same kind of revelation behind her, taken a little aback. No one here knows her name. It feels like, for a moment, like she has a power over all of them. Then, it is gone, as the goddess' golden eyes burn into her for her answer.

 

"Ariwyn." she tells her. Her voice is quiet.

 

"A very beautiful name," Mythal talks quickly, as if she has rehearsed this, or said this a million times to a million different elves as a compliment she does not mean. "Who gave it to you?"

 

"My father."

 

It almost looks like a look of recognition flashes between her eyes. As soon as it appears, however, it is gone.

 

"Tell me, Ariwyn," the braid is complete. Her deft fingers pull it apart, and start over. Her eyes are on the braid, now. "Where you come from, there are rules, yes?"

 

She swallows. "Yes."

 

"One of them, speak it to me."

 

For a moment, she considers playing, too. She almost begins talking about not irking the halla, or disturbing the hunters, or playing with the sacred vallaslin ink. Then, she thinks, of Solas. Of what he almost said, of the fate of the last servant to raise their voice out of turn in Mythal's council. She thinks it best to stay on, dancing to Mythal's little song, for now.

 

She answers exactly as she wants her to. "We must respect those above our station." even though there is barely any station above anyone, in the clan. The only exception is the Keeper themselves.

 

"Exactly." Mythal coos. Gently, she tucks the braid behind her ear. "And what happens, Ariwyn, when that rule is broken?"

 

To her surprise, Solas interrupts. "My goddess," he says, and steps forth, almost putting a hand between them. "She is mine; you have my word, I will ensure she is punished as she must for her actions."

 

He is sweet, she thinks, for trying to prevent the inevitable. To protect her. She is sure, whatever punishment he would come up with would be much lighter than whatever Mythal would. Still, Mythal simply smiles at him, and places a hand, softly, on his arm.

 

"I am sure you would, my Pride," patting him, she releases him, and hesitantly, he steps back. "However, Lord Nelaros requires a display of justice being served."

 

Mythal stands, and slowly, stalks her way to where the Lord stands, at the opposite end to Solas. Her hand reaches out, and her finger taps at his chin, where her vallaslin is dug into his skin. She smiles, like a viper. Then, she walks back. She stops, and looks at Solas over her head.

 

"As you know, as well," she says, "Actions prove of higher value than words, my Pride."

 

Her hand moves so quickly through the air, Ariwyn cannot even see it. It slaps, backwards across her face with so much force that for a moment, it feels like the bones in her jaw have shattered. With a gasp, she flies, tossed to the ground with such a simple a movement, there must have been magic used. For a moment, she stays there, on the cold ground. Her breath is ragged; her heart pounds in her chest. The  _ crack _ still echoes throughout the hall, lingering just long enough for the ringing in her ears to stop. 

 

"I believe that is sufficient, for now." Mythal says. "We do not wish to break her."

 

As soon as she finishes speaking, Solas' hands grasp at her. They tug at her shoulders, her arms, pulling her up from where her face rests against the bleached tiles. In her dizziness, as Solas steadies her, she sees Nelaros across from her, smirking ever so slightly. He nods, satisfied, and stalks down the stairs. She cannot see him for the shadows. 

 

Mythal settles back down on the chaise lounge, and sighs. It is not one of discontent - she almost sounds satisfied herself.

 

"Go," Solas breathes into her ear, "Wait for me down there. I will say what is needed, and we shall leave."

 

Not for a moment, she questions him. She is shaky when he lets her go; her legs, like jelly, wobble under her slightly when she walks. Anyone would think that she has been shot, or suffered any otherwise fatal injury. When she reaches the top of the stairs, she slowly descends, taking one at a time, so to avoid falling. She hears Solas' voice. She stops going down when she no longer can, and sits. 

 

They talk, for quite a while. She is done with talking for tonight. She should be, she thinks, grateful she walked away with her life. She supposes Mythal was quite merciful, but she cannot forget the shaking in her bones. In her skin. In her hands, that move so much before her eyes that she cannot quite figure out if it is dizziness making them move more than they should or not. She is scared, yes, but there is something else -  _ relief _ , she thinks. As soon as Mythal had began to touch her, a chill had settled in, as if she knew death was creeping out for her. 

 

She does not realise she is crying until the tears hit her palms. Scrambling, she tries to stop them, rubbing at her eyes, but she only succeeds in making it worse. Her knees draw up close to her chest, and she sniffles, trying to curl as small as she can, and hide away from everyone. Everything. Whatever things there are here. Wherever  _ here _ is. 

 

A hand settles on her shoulder. Slowly, she draws out from where she had hidden away, only to see soft eyes, crowned with dipped, concerned brows. She tries only to hide back in, but he reaches quickly, and his fingers brush where Mythal's had. Instantly, she jerks from his touch; it burns, the skin of her face feels like fire. 

 

"It is alright," he soothes, and reaches again. This time, she droops her shoulders and allows him to. His fingers, soft and cold, apply the gentlest of pressures to her jaw, and there is a sudden feeling of relief in her skin. She presses against it, sighing. 

 

Magic, she knows. She could have done this herself. A few moments after being slapped by an Evanuris, she thinks, may be an excusable amount of time still for her to not have thought of it herself. His magic is warm, it glows just a little. It soothes her jaw, and it feels as though the skin there is mending itself immediately under his touch.

 

"I have ensured it will not bruise." Solas says, and withdraws. His hand settles over his knee, and he looks at her, his jaw tight. He goes to speak, but does not; his mouth closes.

 

Her voice is so quiet she can barely hear it herself. "I would like to go home."

 

For a moment, the look in his eyes make her think that he thinks it is possible. A spark of hope lights up in her, and she almost forgets Mythal entirely. Then, his head shakes, and he instead rises, and offers a hand. She takes it.

 

He is warm.

 

-

 

That night, her dreams are strange. Feeling more alert than she should in the Fade. She sits up, amongst pretty flowers in a bright field. Her hand presses down against the ground, and yes – her skin burns away the grass, leaving nothing behind. For a time, she sits. The happenings she had faced in the world bordering the edges of reality itself seem so far away, now. The memory of Mythal; it is distant, she does not feel angry. She does not feel anything, it seems. 

So when something disturbs the treeline at the edge of the field, she is not alarmed. Instead, she remains exactly as she was, arms folded in against her chest so that her fingers cannot kill anything else here. It is not real, not really. Still, there is an urge to protect, like this place belongs to her.

 

A wolf, jumps out from between the trunks. It is silvery, bright in the sunlight – he would look better in the light of the moon, she decides. Still, it is completely calm and confident as it pads up through the field towards where she sits. It is unlike any wolf she has ever seen; none are so bold as to approach a person so openly without their pack. Perhaps it does not see her as a threat. As it comes to a stop before her, it sits. There is a familiarity about his eyes. She does not debate it for long – it is of course Solas. It was too obvious. In the cool blue of his eyes there is a calculating look; as if he is wondering how she got here, like she is with him.

 

“What is it?” she asks. Her voice sounds different, like a ghost of itself. It is hollow; it is not real.

 

His voice feels just the same, but it is echoing. For a moment, she wonders how, in such an open space. It rings around her like ripples in a pond, so close, too close for a true echo. It is in her head.

 

" _ You said you wished to go back home _ ." he says. 

 

"You can do that?"

 

She sounds too hopeful, too excited. There is a hesitance in him, when he sees it. It too reflects back on her; she is unsure whether she truly does want to return from this place, this dream. There is still so much to learn, and there is still the matter of tracking down the hunter that was the sole reason she is trapped here. And punching him. Maybe twice, for good measure.

 

" _ Not completely _ ." Solas admits, and his eyes cast downward. It is strange, to hear his voice but see no movement in the wolf before her. "But, I may take you there, for a time."

 

Will it do more harm than good to go, then? She thinks of surprising her clan, and returning to see her father, Keeper Deshanna, the children. She can picture the state of Clan Lavellan now; her father, barking and shouting at the hunters around him, in desperate attempts to locate her, the same as he had been when her mother had disappeared. The Keeper, trying to calm him amongst the chaos of the clan, worry etched into every wrinkle of her face but a determination to keep the situation controlled. The children, huddled together by the fire, wondering when they will be told a story, or when the hunters will give them something warm to eat. The hunters are busy, though. The clan has no Second. Without Ariwyn, the clan will be without a leader if- when something happens to Deshanna. From her state when Ariwyn last saw her, it did not look like that would be long from now.

 

She hopes she is still alive.

 

"Please." she says softly. She feels a sudden fear grip her. "Take me to see them. I have to see them."

 

He nods, and rises to all-fours. She too, stands, and presses a hand against the ground as she pushes herself. He seems alarmed by the damage she causes without meaning to, sniffing at the charred ground where her hands have been, and watches it over the short time it takes for the ground to heal up under her. Strange, he calls it. She is too afraid to ask why.

 

Ariwyn follows him. He is large, for a wolf; his head comes up to hers, his legs almost reaching her shoulders. His fur, silvery and beautiful, looks so soft. Multiple times she is tempted to touch it, until she finally reaches out, and places a hand flat against his front shoulder, where his legs join the broad chest covered in warm fur. His eyes gaze at it, but he does not say anything.

 

It feels like they are wandering, roaming without a goal. Solas knows where he is going, though; he leads the way through ever-shifting terrain, the world warping around them. They leave the safety of her dream field, and venture into known territory. There are colder areas, made of what looks like snow but tastes like ash, with spirits of Sorrow and Vengeance roaming. Then, hotter ones, where battles between spirits are common place, and Rage is a frequent sight. It is amazing to watch; they are safe to pass them, Solas says, as he can hide them. So she gazes in curiosity as they go, both fascinated and a little terrified.

 

They finally reach what Solas thinks is their destination. The earth beneath their feet ends; the sky above is torn apart, and green light, dripping like thick water, falls down into the chasm below. It looks like the same energy the Guardian showed her in the well. Spirits of all kinds chase one another, skirting around the flow of magic but never touching. Those that do, do it with intention, and they become a part of it, vanishing from sight in a split-second. 

 

" _ This is a true spirit well _ ." Solas explains; she is glad for his voice in her head, as there feels to be a terrible wind here that howls in her ears. " _ Many spirits use them to travel between realms, and sometimes, to the mortal one. This is how we will leave _ ."

 

"And we can come back this way?" she asks, uncertain he can hear.

 

He can. " _ If you choose to _ ."

 

It sounds remarkably like an offer. 

 

"Perhaps you would be best to hold on," he suggests, and he settles down low to the ground. She cannot say this is the strangest thing that will happen to her, riding the back of an ancient, powerful elven Lord transformed into a wolf inside the Fade, at an entrance to every reality in existence, for she has not left her life, yet. She can say it is certainly the strangest thing to happen so  _ far _ . 

 

As he rises back to his feet, she lies flat against his back, settling down amidst the soft, soft fur that is ripped this way and that by the wind. Her hands grasp tight fistfuls of it as he takes a few steps back, charges, and leaps straight into the chasm. She is unsure whether she is screaming or not; the wind is too loud, and nothing feels right here. The feeling of falling is still the same as ever, and her stomach twists. Maybe she should be screaming.

 

There is a flash of light, and then it is over.

 

It is quiet. No wind, no ominous singing of spirits as they hunt one another. Her hands, still tangled up in fur, are pale in the moonlight above. What startles her most is that the fur in her hands has changed colour. It is black, like soot. Cautiously, she scoots back, and slowly drops off his back and to her own shaky feet. 

 

"Pride?" she asks, uncertain. 

 

His head turns. With a shout, she stumbles back, and trips. Her heart pounds in her ears as she scrambles in the dirt below, desperate to get away. Instead, the wolf moves closer, chasing. Its six red eyes stare at her.

 

Fen'Harel. 

 

"I- I don't understand," she breathes, letting out an involuntary shriek when his teeth clamp around her ankle. It is not tight enough to hurt. He drags her back quicker than she had scurried away, and she squeezes her eyes shut as she comes to a stop beneath him.

 

" _ I am still me _ ."

 

Surprised, her eyes crack open, just a little. The six eyes blink back at her, rippling; the bottom pair first, and stopping at the top. She  _ sees _ Solas in them. He is concerned about her. 

 

" _ Do not be afraid of me _ ," he requests, his voice ringing softly in her head, " _ I will not harm you _ ."

 

"But you're..." she realises she is still pressing to the ground as much as she can to be away from him. Slowly, she eases up. " _ You _ are the Dread Wolf?"

 

She hears a sigh, in the back of her mind. " _ It is more complicated than that, but yes. I am the Dread Wolf _ ."

 

Her heart is still racing in her chest. It batters against her ribcage, thump, thump, thump, thump. His eyes, all six of them, glance down to where it is in her chest, as if he can hear it. They go back up, to her face, where her eyes still regard him with fear.

 

" _ I give you my word _ ," he says, " _ I will not hurt you. I will show you to your clan and you may stay, if you are so afraid of me _ ."

 

He is  _ hurt _ . It is almost as if he did not expect this reaction from her, as if he thought she would simply accept it without pause. Still, as his eyes close and he goes to step over her, her hands scramble up, to tug at his fur- despite its change in colour, it yet feels the same. He stops, and looks back to her, confused.

 

"You will explain everything." she demands. " _ Everything _ ."

 

She cannot quite believe she is being so abrupt so casually with Fen'Harel.  _ Fen'Harel _ .

 

" _ Yes _ ." he says, and nods.

 

After that, she tries to pretend that it does not bother her. They wander for a while, but she still feels tense every time his eyes look to her, to check she is still there. The forests are dark, and her eyes only see so far- further than a shemlen's, but not far enough to see everything. She can barely see him, beside her. If not for the ominous glow of his many eyes, she would have lost him. 

 

"You could not have taken us closer to the clan?" she groans. Her feet ache; they have been walking for so long.

 

His eyes drift to her, and the wolf snorts in amusement. " _ I would have, if someone had not broken my spell _ ."

 

For a moment, she is confused. Then, her eyes grow wide and she stops moving entirely to glare accusingly at him. 

 

"You! You set that ward!" she scowls, and she can almost swear the bones above his eyes rise in disbelief, like eyebrows. "You planned to trap us!"

 

" _ Of course _ ." he says, and continues on. " _ That was my intention, after all. Do remember what I told you of the Dread Wolf _ ."

 

Rescuing them from certain doom or not, she is still seething by the time she stomps up beside him and continues walking with him. 

 

Eventually, she tires. It is all very confusing; she is not sure if she is awake or not anymore. Is this her real body, or is that still beyond the Veil, tucked up in a comfortable bed in a gaudy elven palace? Is Solas really even with her, or is he simply projecting an illusion for her here? Is this even real? Is it just a dream?

 

Her head hurts, and she stops contemplating the answers. Again, he offers her his back when he sees her pace slowing, and at first she refuses. She sees the look in his eyes, like an offended, upset puppy - one the size of an aravel with too many eyes, but a puppy nonetheless - and after a moment, asks him if he would after all. 

 

Solas finds the clan, after what feels like an eternity. Their camp is quiet; everyone but those on first lookout round are asleep. He approaches carefully at first, avoiding the hunters with adept stealth, and stopping at the edge of the light of the fire. There are soft snores coming from aravels around them; she smiles when she sees the face of child sound asleep, cheeks soft- the clan has been eating well, at least. 

 

" _ I will wait here _ ," he says, and lowers himself down again. She steps off his back. " _ If you choose you would like to stay, I will leave when the hunters reach me. If you wish to come back with me, you know where I am. _ "

 

Simply being in the camp feels like a gift; she never knew how much she would miss the sound of the wind, pushing against the sails of the aravels ever so softly to make a creaking sound, or the gentle crackle of a campfire. Grateful, she kneels before where he still lays, and places her hands either side of his gigantic jaw. She leans forward, and places a kiss on his snout. 

 

Before he can say anything, she dashes off amongst the aravels.

 

There is one hunter by the campfire. He has dozed off, hands around his bow and quiver as if he had been ready to strike at a moment's notice. It looks like he has fallen asleep very abruptly - Solas' doing, probably, just in the off-change she decides to return with him, she thinks.

 

She knows where Deshanna will be. Her aravel is always one of the closest to the campfire, so that it is easy for her to retire to sleep. She wonders who helps her now that she is gone; has she elected a Second, or another First to replace her? Perhaps a hunter has that duty, now. 

 

Slowly, Ariwyn brushes aside the curtain hanging over the aravel, where the rails have been lowered to make for the Keeper's bed. To her relief, there she lies, fast asleep, chest still rising and falling with every breath. She does not realise how happy this makes her until she is sniffling, and brushing away tears. She has missed her, so, so much.

 

"Keeper," she breathes, gently shaking her shoulder. It has felt like too long since she has spoken in a language other than Elven.

 

After a moment, Deshanna wakes. Her eyes, still drooping with sleep, blink at her, and then they go wide, and she smiles, widely.

 

"Da'len," she struggles to sit, and opens her arms to her, pulling her in. Ariwyn breathes in deeply, her arms so tight around the elderly elf that she is scared she might hurt her. She is so tired, and lonely. She almost cries again.

 

Deshanna releases her, yet holds her hands tight in hers. "I knew you would return to us," she says, and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. She does it better than Mythal ever would. "The hunters have been trying so desperately to find you and Seron, everyone was so worried."

 

A wave of guilt washes over her. Seron - she did not find him. He has not come home.

 

She explains this to the Keeper, but does not tell her where he has gone, or who has him. If she were to tell her the story, she would not know where to begin. It would take so long to tell her everything. She might not even believe her. 

 

"We have to tell your father you have returned," Deshanna says, with a look of sorrow still on her face. "We will still have to track Seron, however. If he is lost to us, it will be a great loss for the clan."

 

"Please do not call my father, not yet." she pleads, and squeezes her hands, uncertain of herself. "Something has happened, Keeper. It... I have so many questions to answer, so many things to find. Seron is one of them- I refuse to return properly without him."

 

Something like understanding passes through the Keeper's eyes. "It has changed you." she concludes, a wry smile on her lips. "You have been given a choice, haven't you da'len? You are conflicted."

 

Ariwyn swallows, her shoulders falling. "Yes, Keeper. And I am afraid that if I should choose, I will not be allowed to change my mind again."

 

The Keeper does not understand, not fully. Yet, her hand comes up to tap at her chin, and encourage her to look up. "And your heart, da'len? What does it want?"

 

She does not know. Part of her wishes to forget it all, to pretend it was a strange, fever dream, and Seron was simply stolen away from them by monsters lurking in the forests. Then, she remembers what monster it was that took him; not the wolf, but the man. He stands, arms behind his back, eyes cast to something off in the distance, but he is there, in her thoughts. He is so kind, she thinks. He is the only one from that strange world to be so gentle with her, so patient. He has offered her answers, knowledge, but her body does not want to leave the aravel.

 

"I want to go with him." she says, to herself. Her voice breaks.  _ I do not want to leave _ , she almost says, too.

 

"Then  go, da'len." Deshanna's hands tighten on hers. "If you are to be happier to leave the clan, then you must."

 

It is not a case of her happiness. She wants to stay with her clan, as she always has, but there are things she must know. Things she must settle.

 

She will return for Seron, she thinks. That way she does not feel so selfish.

 

"I am scared, Keeper." she breathes.

 

"I know," the Keeper smiles, gently, as if she were looking at a child, still. Perhaps she is. "You must not forget that the clan will walk with you, no matter what path you may take. If you must leave us, then so be it, but we will be with you always, da'len."

 

She hears noise outside. The hunters, they are moving; Fen'Harel will have to leave, soon.

 

There is a moment, where she considers changing her mind. The thought is gone as soon as it came.

 

"Be safe, da'len," Deshanna says, releasing her hands. She settles down, lying flat once more, as if no one had ever disturbed her. "I will not tell anyone of this."

 

Bowing her head, she presses her brow to the Keeper's. She feels like she must say something more, to thank her, to pray for her and the clan. Instead, she sighs, and says softly, "Goodbye."

 

"Dareth shiral."

 

She scrambles back through the camp. The hunters move too quickly, they are changing too fast. Once or twice, she almost runs straight onto their path, narrowly avoiding them by seconds. Hurriedly, she returns to where she left him, Fen'Harel. She is out of breath by the time she arrives, her heart beating at the adrenaline of the almost-incidents.

 

He is gone.

 

"No," she breathes, he cannot have left already. Taking one last glance to the clan, she turns, and runs into the forests, into the pitch blackness, straining her eyes to see some movement, some flash of his many eyes. 

 

Perhaps if she went back to where he had found her and Seron, she could see him. Maybe trigger the spell again, call him to her instead of him this time. She does not even know the way, does not know how. In vain, she calls out to him. Softly, at first, getting louder as she gets further from the clan. She tries in both languages, and soon the distinction between Pride and Solas becomes nothing. Her voice is hoarse, and she is out of breath for running. Everything aches. She is hungry, cold. She feels lost.

 

Alone.

 

Maybe it was all a trick. Maybe he drew her from her clan for this, to abandon her. 

 

Slowly, she sinks to the floor. She has cried enough tonight, but more tears come. The clan is too far, she does not know where they are. Pride- Solas- Fen'Harel- he is gone too. She does not know what to do. 

 

At first, she thinks it is a trick of her mind when she feels something soft brushing the top of her head. She waves her hands at it, only looking up when it is persistent. Is her mind playing tricks on her, one last act of torment before it gives up on her?

 

She does not care, she decides. Reaching up, her arms curl around the neck of the great wolf before her, his many red eyes blinking at her. He does not make any move to leave her. In fact, his eyes close as she settles in against his chest.

 

" _ I thought you would not leave your clan _ ." the voice echoes in her mind.

 

Unwilling to talk about it, she remains quiet. Instead, she sighs softly.  _ You thought wrong _ , she thinks.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr! I post things and stuff there, and I always post when I update this fic, so make sure to follow me there if you don't have Ao3 notifications turned on: http://bubble-bones.tumblr.com

It turns out, the whole time her and Solas were gone, she was in fact still dreaming. Or, at least, it seems that way, as she woke back in her room once she fell asleep in the Fade. There is lots of sleeping, she thinks. Sleeping on the edge of reality and waking up in the Fade, being asleep in both and being awake in reality, sleeping in the Fade and coming back to the edge of reality. It is most confusing. When they had returned to the Fade together, Solas' eyes, the six glowing red in the gloom, had become two again, and his fur bled white. It is all about perspective, he told her.

 

Upon returning to the world here, her life almost falls into a routine. She wakes, eats, sometimes takes the time to visit the public baths, and visits Solas. He has his own study, nestled amongst the many rooms of the library; the main library itself is massive, spanning many balconies that spiral around the tower until the shelves hit the ceiling high, high above. There are doors beyond alcoves that lead to separate rooms. She learns Solas' study is only accessible by those who know it is there; it appears like a simple wall if those looking are not aware.  

 

He teaches her many things. First and foremost, the most important lessons he teaches her are the delicate manners and politicking of this realm. This drags out for many weeks, as there is lots to learn and Solas takes his time to ensure she does not forget his teachings. Very quickly, she picks up on the nature of their society; there is a hierarchy, not unlike those of shemlen societies, perhaps. Of course, the Evanuris sit at the very top, their court ruling supreme above all. Then, their individual Councils made of Lords and Ladies of their division of the People. Where she sits is below them, then - surprising her - as she serves one of them. The ranks grow confusing past that; there are many branches and the further down, the more different roles in society there seems to be. Most Waking ones are placed at the bottom, and have difficulty rising above it, Solas says. She is thankful for her position, now.

 

The world is another thing Solas likes to explain to her. There is a look of passion in his eyes as he tells her of the Fade, and the ways in which it manipulates the world around them. They do not belong here. No living beings but spirits should be beyond the Veil, and that is why they intended to trap the Forgotten Ones on this side. But, knowing being in the Waking world would strip them of their magic and immortality, the Evanuris chose to remain leave, cursing the Forgotten Ones to the world without magic. Despite retaining all that makes them the elvhen, living in a world so unfit for those in bodies proves to have its problems. The Evanuris are fighting to find a solution, Solas says, as their Empire is dying again. It is the doing of the Fade, this time.

 

They talk very little of what happened that night of travelling between realms, save for him asking if she had managed to say all she wanted to someone on the other side. She did ask, once of course, about what had happened to him. He explained that he has been Fen'Harel for a very, very long time - dating back to the days of Arlathan. Back then, the stories her people had always told were simple superstition, and when the empire collapsed, they became no more than gossip when his identity was revealed to Mythal; the one he trusts most among the Evanuris. It is common knowledge amongst the People now, who he truly is. 

 

"In the Waking world," he says, slowing stepping around a table positioned in the centre of his study, covered in books, "My form changes to reflect the belief of those around me. You perceived my identity to be the Dread Wolf without even knowing, as would your clan. Your subconscious was correct."

 

Part of her still is in disbelief.  _ The _ Fen'Harel - he exists, and not only does he, but he is also right before her, as old and as powerful as Arlathan itself. She smiles, and ducks her head, almost bashfully.

 

"My favourite tales amongst my people were always about you." she admits, and her cheeks feel a little warm. She goes to open a window. 

 

When she turns back to him, he is smiling. "Those stories are simple fancy," he brushes off, "Though if they were enough to delight your people, then they should be good ones."

 

Part of her feels a little guilt, for villainising him so much in her retellings, but they still ring true; Fen'Harel does steal away people from their homes. He does not eat them, though.

 

Abruptly, he says, "I am glad you chose to return with me."

 

Her heart begins to thud, just a little. Settling herself with a coy smile, she meets him at the table, her hands settling on a pile of books. "Why? Because you'd lose yourself a brilliant servant?"

 

"Because I have so much more to show you."

 

And he does. For months, he teaches, and she learns. There is so much; he teaches her how to write in ancient elven - she had barely started to learn with Keeper Deshanna, even though she knew all of what the Keeper held; in turn, she teaches him how to read in her tongue. He teaches her of how magic works here, how to control it despite its potency compared to reality, shows her a better method of self-control to keep it in check. It is wild, here, like it is a person in its own right. It moves, and acts, with so much as a tiny thought. 

 

She also learns more history. Things her people had never hoped to learn, did not even know existed to start with. Some are fascinating and others are things she knows her people would be glad not to know; there are methods of hunting that would save the hunters years worth of time, rituals she would not even know how to begin to prepare for, paints that lasted a thousand years. 

 

As a means of making her fit in better with those of her station, and give her a bit of purpose amongst them, Solas asks her if she possess any talents. For a time, she is confused by this - he explains creatively, ways of expressing oneself and proving individuality. He shows her his skill at painting, and it is wonderful to look at. She cannot paint, she tells him, but she can sing. She proves it to him, half-shy and looking anywhere but at his face. This too, becomes an avenue of study and training. He encourages her to learn ancient songs and poems she is mesmerised by, and shows her an instrument she has never seen, and helps her learn to play.

 

It is a beautiful string instrument, almost like a harp. It is small and compact, however, able to be fit in two hands; unlike the old husks that she has seen in ruins, so large it is difficult to move, with strings made of spider webs. She can play it standing or sitting, though she finds standing easier, as her hand underneath to support it can easily move to twist or pull various switches along the bottom of the instrument. It is wonderful - by doing so, she can change the pitch of the instrument, or make it sound like an entirely different thing. It is magic, she knows; Solas even shows her it is possible to replicate sounds with it, like a person's voice or a bird's chirp. That, alongside her new studies of magic, are how she keeps herself busy in the days, not trying to think too much about anything else.

 

At nights, Solas sometimes visits her. In the Fade, that is. He tells her he was surprised by how the Fade reacted to her, and wanted to watch her interact back. Mostly, they sit together in the Fade, or he takes her to explore various locations he has found over the years that he thinks will interest her. At times like these, she asks him what interests him; he seems very accommodating of her, but it is strange, she thinks, as she is his servant, not the other way around. He talks very passionately of the People, and his strong desire to see them fulfilled and protected. When he speaks about the Waking world, she can feel his despair in the Fade; he feels as though he had failed, when he created the Veil, even though it was an act to prevent war. Now, he sees those abandoned, like her clan, and desires to protect them, too.

 

" _ It is why I brought you here _ ," he tells her, as his four paws pad along beneath her; she is on his back. " _ And your clansman. It is a shame you were parted, but it is better to be here than there when the Evanuris act upon their plans. _ "

 

She glances around, but realises she probably would not be able to see a spy amongst the Fade even if there was one. Instead, all she sees is gloom.

 

"What are they planning?" she dares to ask. For a moment she thinks Solas will not answer her.

 

Instead, his tongue switches to hers. It surprises her. " _ They do not tell me, but I believe they will act upon the Veil, and eventually the Forgotten Ones. I do not know what to do. If they do it, it will undo everything I did to stop their war _ ."

 

"It has been millennia," Ariwyn says softly, trying to ignore how wonderfully well he speaks in the language of the Waking world. "Why would they still fight?"

 

" _ It has been millennia for the Forgotten Ones, trapped away in a place that flows with the passage of time _ ." Solas stops, and allows her to slide off his back. " _ They will be angry, and hunt for vengeance. Here, we do not understand the concept of time anymore, and so the Evanuris are as eager to kill as they were when the Veil rose _ ."

 

Silently, her hand goes to run through the fur at his shoulder. "Do you think the Forgotten Ones will hurt those in the Waking world?"

 

He sighs. " _ I do not know. But if they are, it gives me all the more reason to rescue as many as I can _ ."

 

_ Rescue _ . At the time, it had felt like anything but. She had been so frightened. Now, she looks at him with a gaze softer than she means, and her hands move across his side as if she does not even realise what she is doing. She does not, not really; she is comfortable with him. She would even say she likes him, with how kind she has been to her. 

 

"What really happens to most Waking ones?" she asks. She remembers the woman, the one who had looked to her for guidance when they had first arrived. She has not seen her since.

 

" _ They will not be harmed, if that is what you are worried about _ ." Solas' snout turns, and pokes at her arms. He wants her to touch his head, instead - he behaves just like any other dog when he is like this. " _ Not amongst Mythal's people. I am her servant, and I bring her more; she does not wish to harm us. Of those that go to the other gods, I am not certain _ ."

 

"Do they ever speak to one another?" she asks. She holds back a laugh when his head bumps up against her, and nearly knocks away her balance. How can she take this conversation seriously when he behaves like this?

 

" _ Yes _ ," his head remains there, pushed against her chest. He is trying to keep her calm, she realises. " _ You wish to see him, don't you? _ "

 

Seron. At the mention of him, Solas seems to hesitate, and pulls back his head. He stands, instead, a small distance from her, and her hands drop to her sides.

 

"I wish to know if he is alright, that is all." it feels like she  _ should _ be lying. She is not.

 

" _ Who is he? _ " 

 

Huffing, she steps a little further into the pavilion made of marble he has brought her to. In the centre, there is a pool, of the same sea-foam green liquid she is beginning to see too often. She stands by the edge, her toes hovering just above it, where it sloshes and pulls, calling to her.

 

"He is a hunter." Ariwyn says, simply. "My father likes him, and all he wanted was to impress him, become a great hunter like him. He attempted a poor attempt to begin courting me the same night you took us. I do not reciprocate."

 

She feels like the last part was probably not necessary. Not in this kind of conversation, not with a person higher above her station than her. He is expressing mere interest, nothing more, she thinks.

 

" _ Your father is a strong hunter, then? _ " Solas asks, and comes to sit by her. He still looms over her, even when sat. " _ And your mother? What of her? A mage, perhaps? _ "

 

"I do not know. She was taken from us when I was a baby."

 

" _ Ah. _ " is all he says. Then, " _ My condolences. _ "

 

She shrugs. "I would have liked to know her, but I cannot mourn a woman I did not know."

 

" _ You told Mythal you were named after her, did you not? _ "

 

Ariwyn nods. The water in the pool sings, and she crouches before it, and dips a finger in. It is warm, surging with power. 

 

" _ It is a beautiful name. _ " he decides. " _ It suits you well. _ "

She feels her face grow warm. She gives him a polite smile, before sitting, trying to focus on the pool, instead. Slowly, she slips her feet in, then her calves. He watches her as she does, and does not tell warm her against it; he does not have to, she supposes, it does not feel the same as the well in the world where they roam awake. Eventually, she drops down into the water, and feels the bottom of the pool beneath her feet; it moves, but it is mostly solid. The water comes up to her neck.

 

"Why are you a wolf, here?" she asks, pushing away from the edge, and drifting back amongst the water. It is thicker than most she has swam in, and it envelops her like a tight, warm embrace. 

 

" _ It is easier to evade spirits this way _ ." he lays, his nose settling atop his paws at the edging of the pool. It reflects in his fur, making him a glowing, light green, where it fades into a dark grey the further from the light of the pool it gets. " _ They cannot as easily distinguish another spirit from a person with a body if they are not their true self _ ."

 

"I think it is wonderful," she tells him, spinning slowly. The water is so warm. "You make for a very pretty wolf."

 

He does not know how to respond, it seems. Then, he says, " _ I think you make for a very pretty elf, then. _ "

 

They should not talk like this, she thinks. It seems too casual, too bold. She is his servant, surely she should not be complimented in such a way? Still, he does not rescind his comment, and instead, grows more confident with it.

 

" _ That boy, the hunter that attempted to court you _ ," he begins, and his eyes begin to move in circular patterns. The water, around her, swirls in the same circles. " _ He must have been very brave to do it directly to you. What did he do? _ "

 

Friendly, that is all. He is just being friendly.

 

"Gave me a flower." she says. He barks a laugh. At it, she smiles. 

 

" _ You do not seem like the type of woman to appreciate such a simple gift. _ " he tells her. " _ Tell me it did not please you. _ "

 

He is not wrong, so she does. He snorts. His tail swishes, left to right, right to left. His eyes still move, and so does the water. She moves with it. It pulls her back to the edge, where he lays. Finally, his eyes still, and settle on her, instead. He looks at her with a look of bemused curiosity. It almost reminds her of Mythal. Are all ancient elves this overtly confident?

 

" _ A woman like you would prefer soft words, or beautiful, priceless relics to put on display and show to the world. _ " he says. His hot breath hits her face in huffs. " _ If one were to give you flowers, it must be done tenfold, and the rarest variety that could be found in the entire world. A gift of music perhaps, would be better loved, or a simple display of affection would be in favour to return yours? Am I wrong? _ "

 

Her face, it is very, very hot. The pool's warm does not help. She stares up at him, almost forgetting to breathe for a moment, and if he were not a wolf right now, she does not think she would be able to find words to be able to tell him he is not.

 

"I-" she breathes a little, in disbelief, and looks at the water pooling around her chest. "I do not entirely know what I would like. No one has ever courted me before."

 

Solas' eyes go a little wide, and his neck pulls back, and he rises a little. " _ Truly? _ "

 

She somehow feels more embarrassed now than she had before. "Yes. Is that a bad thing?"

 

He lets out a small huff, and lowers himself back down. " _ No, I am merely surprised. I suppose I should not be, considering mortality tends to limit the amount of partners one may have in a lifetime. _ "

 

She snorts, thinking of the stories the hunters told her of certain types of women in shemlen towns. "I do not think that is always the case, but yes. Why? Does immortality make people suddenly very poly-amorous?"

 

" _ Of course. _ " he answers bluntly, like it should not be shocking. " _ It is rare for most elves to remain with one partner for an extended period of time. Many Lords and Ladies, Evanuris included, have had many, many partners, and continue to do so. Lord Nelaros has dozens of servants, all of which are or have been partners at a moment in time. _ "

 

Her eyes go wide. "It is not improper for a Lord to, uhm... find enjoyment, with one of his servants?"

 

" _ Not at all. Though, if a relationship lasts for a long time, there is bound to be talk. _ "

 

Suddenly, she finds herself on a train of thought so curious that she forgets entirely how they had gotten to this conversation. She cannot help herself, and begins to ask, "Do many elves have children?"

 

He does not find the change in conversation too jarring, and is not surprised by it. " _ No, not really. Mostly people find pleasure in one another, not a desire to reproduce. There are cases, of course. But no, children and infants are very rare. _ "

 

Swallowing a little, she asks, "Do you have any children?"

 

" _ No _ ." he says. " _ I have had partners before, but never any that lasted long enough for a desire for a child _ ."

 

She does not think that should bother her. But it does.

 

She hears him clear his throat. " _ Perhaps we should return. _ " is what he says. 

 

Agreeing, she clambers out of the pool. He tells her it is safe here, and so she settles down on the cool marble surface surrounding the water, and that which clung to her simply dries out, pouring off her body as if there was no fabric or skin or hair to cling to. Then, Solas settles down around her, and he is warm. He did not do this at first, but he has since said he must protect her while she returns in the off-chance a harmful spirit comes when she is in the in-between. She does not worry about him returning; she knows better than to doubt his ability. 

 

As she drifts off, she feels more at ease than she has ever before. 

 

" _ Wake up _ ."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the wonderful support so far! I'm so grateful for your love, I get so excited whenever I see someone has enjoyed my little story enough to leave kudos, or comment. You guys are awesome! <3

Some of Mythal's people start talking to her. 

 

At first, it is only whispers when she enters the dining hall, or leaving a room when she enters. They did not like her much, either because she is a Waking one, or because she belongs to Solas, she does not know. When the first stranger initiates an actual conversation with her, it is startling. 

 

"How do you know elven?" he asks, as he slides up the bench in the dining hall to sit beside her. Ariwyn jumps, looking at him in surprise. She stays frozen like that long enough for him to wave a hand in front of her. "Hello? Has your spirit left you, little Waking one?"

 

Quickly, she shakes her head, and blinks. Her eyes sting from being open so long. 

 

"I was taught," she replies, rising her shoulders and fixing her posture from a slump. Solas had told her it was best to talk with confidence; most would exploit any sign of weakness. "My Keeper knew a lot, and I was her First and so I learned from her."

 

"I've heard about those," he snorts a little, as if surprised she actually admitted the truth of their existence, "The Waking ones still scurry in clans, yes? Led by Keepers and told stories of what the great People used to be like?"

 

She does not like the way he describes them. Huffing, she nods. "Yes. I apologise if we are not up to your great standard but we survive in the ways we can. Not all of us can live in such luxury."

 

His eyes go wide in his head. "I did not mean any offence!" he waves his hands at her, and sits up properly from where he was lounging against the table. "It's just- before Arlathan and the true empire rose, we used to be like that, too. I was wondering if your people showed any signs of rebuilding, like we once did."

 

She sighs, and shakes her head. "Very unlikely. We lost Arlathan and then the Dales. Our people have no home in the Waking world anymore, we are-"

 

"Nomads." he concludes. She nods. Sitting up fully - he is taller than her - he extends a hand before him. "My name is Feynrion, I generally study oddities wherever I can."

 

So she is the next oddity to study for him. It is not a surprise he spoke to her willingly, then.

 

Feynrion seems to notice the disgruntled thought pattern her mind goes on. He smiles, reassuringly. "I will not pick you apart and look at how you work, young one. I believe I would lose my head by Lord Pride's doing if I did."

 

"Young one?" her nose wrinkles up at being spoken to like that. No one has called her young since she took her vallaslin. 

 

"Yes, you are a Waking one. Therefore you are young."

 

"I am  _ not _ young. I have blood writing."

 

He laughs, barking loud that echoes in the hall and startles a few groups of elves around them. This time, at least, no one joins in, and begins poking at her. They simply look at him with some annoyance, before returning to their meals. 

 

"You, young one-" he wheezes, wiping a tear from his eye, "-You are very funny! Do you know how old an elf is in this realm when they receive their blood writing?"

 

It occurs to her she does not. Scowling, she asks, "How old?"

 

"Barely even a decade."

 

She feels like she's missing something. She pointedly draws her brows together and looks at him with an amused smirk. It is usually around the same age for Dalish to receive theirs, too.

 

"Ah," he registers her confusion, and places a hand flat against his chest. "I received my blood markings at the age of fifteen. That was seven-hundred and forty-three years ago."

 

_ Immortals _ . Of course.

 

Grumbling under her breath, she tears at the bread in her hands. "I thought no one understands a concept of time here, yet everyone likes to talk about age. How the hell does the sky even know when to change to night?"

 

He hears her, and leans down into her view. "It does not, not really. Everything is merely an illusion."

 

"What?"

 

Feynrion grins, eager to share his knowledge. "Everything you see here, the food you are eating, the warmth you feel - all magic. It is not happening, not really. In the Waking world, we are all in the eternal waking dream, buried away safe under the protection of none other than the Dread Wolf."

 

Suddenly, it all makes sense. The bread roll suddenly feels like dust in her hands, and she sets it down. It crumbles away into nothing on the plate.

 

He looks a little startled by that, too. "Perhaps I should not have told you."

 

"Why?" she is scared to look at anything but the plate unless such a thing would happen to anyone else. She does not think making bread disappear is as terrible as making a whole person vanish.

 

"We are in a fold of non-reality. Really, anyone could change anything with their thoughts alone. Ignorance is bliss here and you now- perhaps I should stop talking, yes?"

 

"Perhaps you should go find my Master."

 

Feyrion hesitates beside her. "What can he do?"

 

"Stop me before I do something dangerous."

 

She does not think there is any immediate danger, but he leaves to find him anyway. It all makes so much sense, all of it- mortals are not supposed to be here, and so they are not, not in truth. When people in the Waking world sleep, their minds and spirits enter the Fade- that is where they are. The Evanuris and the People entered Uthenera when the Veil rose; they are eternally in the Fade!

 

Solas put her to sleep, in the Waking world. So how did he take her back?

 

A hand settles on her shoulder, but she does not look up. Solas sits beside her, she can see his concerned expression out of the corner of her vision. There is another behind her, still standing; Feyrion, she assumes.

 

"Stop me from thinking." she says, swallowing a lump in her throat. "I am frightened I will hurt someone."

 

"What did you do?" Solas' voice sounds worryingly threatening. It is not directed at her; he is glaring up at Feyrion, now.

 

It takes him a moment to respond. "A-All I did was explain where we are, truly. I thought you would have told her that." Solas looks away, back to her again. "She made the bread in her hands disappear. I think she is scared she'll do it to-"

 

"Yes, I have said that." she is growing increasingly tense. "Please, Pride. Before I hurt someone."

 

"You will not." he says.

 

"Please."

 

She never thought she'd willingly ask him to separate her from the Fade, like he had done all those months ago. Nevertheless, his hand reaches forward, and his fingers, gentle and cold, soothing like a cool breeze, settle against her forehead, and then she forgets everything. This time, she completely blacks out. It is better this way, she thinks, rather than suffering while she cannot feel and breathe magic. Those mages, in the Waking world, that are split from the Fade forever by those Templars- they cannot be Tranquil. The feeling is anything but.

 

When she wakes, it is to a calm, afternoon sky. There are few clouds, and so the sky itself twists very slowly, dancing to a song that lasts so long it cannot be heard. She wonders if it will ever stop being disorientating, the way nothing here seems to be able to stay in one place. She should ask Feyrion more, if she can handle the knowledge without destroying something.

 

Using her elbows, she pushes herself up, and for a moment, simply looks around. Whoever brought her here laid her down amongst flowers, in between beautiful foliage that pools and stretches out over the garden space. She is tucked away, hidden, and she is content, here. She feels relaxed. 

 

Around the natural bed of moss, leaves and pretty flowers that change colour, there is a gap. It breaks the flat where she sits from the rest of the garden, and it is filled with the sea-foam water. Gently, she reaches out to it, and dips a finger in; it is easier to touch now, she almost feels slightly numb, she cannot feel the full power of it. 

 

There is a crack of a branch underfoot, and she looks down to where there is a break in the bushes around her. Solas comes through, and she would not recognise him if she had not seen him in the Fade; he is a wolf, his silvery fur shining in the sunlight. He really is beautiful; no wolf she has ever seen looks both as deadly and dazzling as he does. Magic, again.

 

" _ How do you feel _ ?" he asks, his voice echoing in her head. It is reassuring, and gentle. 

 

"Tired," she admits, and sits up fully. He approaches carefully, like the gap between her and the edge is much smaller than it is. Perhaps being a wolf that size makes it feel smaller. "Am I actually in danger of hurting someone?"

 

" _ Not right now _ ." he sits beside her; his head looms over her, so high that she is able to comfortably sit under him, blocked in shade of the sun. " _ I kept your magic sedated for a little while, just to ensure that you did not. _ "

 

She sighs, softly. "Knowledge really is power here, isn't it?"

 

" _ Very much so. But now that you know, you must always bear it in mind as to avoid disrupting the magic in place here. _ "

 

Slowly, she leans to the side, and settles against his front, between his front legs. He is warm, and soft, like always. He does not move.

 

" _ It is still surprising you managed to completely remove that food from the fabric of reality. _ " he says, and her head hurts too much to understand fully what he is talking about. " _ First you can manipulate the Fade, now break through the magic of very powerful elders. Mythal was right about you. _ "

 

She makes a noise of disgust. "What has she been saying about me now?"

 

" _ She merely said you were special. _ "

 

Now that is more surprising than making a bread roll vanish. 

 

He moves; his head lowers, and the tip of his snout stops atop her head. She feels a lot warmer than she did before, now, but it is not exactly comfortable anymore. She feels flustered, as his hot breaths come out in short huffs into her hair and onto her shoulders. The one thing that calms her heartbeat is thinking of Seron; not because she should be loyal to him, but because of how much she would like to punch him.

 

"Where are we?" she asks, quietly, once she is calmer again.

 

" _ The Garden of Spirits. It is a place of healing; I brought you here so that you might be calm whilst you come to accept what the fool told you. _ "

 

"He is no fool for telling me," she thinks aloud, "I am surprised you yourself did not tell me."

 

Her breath catches; in his chest rumbles a low, but loud, growl. 

 

" _ Anything he can tell you, I can. You need only ask. _ " his voice sounds relatively calm, in comparison to the sounds he makes.

 

"I could have sworn I just heard," she begins, a small smile tugging at her lips, "A hint of jealousy there, Pride."

 

He snorts, grumpy. " _ Me? Jealous? Nonsense. _ "

 

Now she snorts, in amusement. "Of course, of course," she coos, and reaches up, stroking back the fluff in her face. "The Dread Wolf - jealous? Such stupidity this mortal possesses to think such a thing!"

 

" _ You are too sarcastic for your own good _ ."

 

She grins.

 

-

 

Later, she meets with Feyrion again. It is at dinner, and she hunts him down in the dining hall for the sole purpose of poking him for more answers. He is amongst a group of other elves that are chatting amongst themselves, and when they notice her approach, they go deathly silent.

 

"Young one!" Feyrion greets in a loud cheer, throwing up his arms in welcome. "Come, come, sit with us."

 

The elves are more than willing to scoot aside as she comes through. They give her a very wide berth, she notices. When she gets through, she sits at the table beside the only elf whose name she knows, and he continues to talk as if without interruption. 

 

"And so I said to him-" he says, waving his hands around in a flurry, giving his best retelling of the tale. "-If you don't get your ass here in a second, I swear you'll never see it again!"

 

She feels like she missed the joke; the group of elves burst into laughter, applauding his tale and howling so hard in joy that she wonders if they are drunk. Perhaps they are. People do not laugh this hard at such a simple line - or perhaps she did actually miss an earlier set-up for the joke. She does not know, or care, really.

 

"So, young one," Feyrion leans back, his arm stretching out across the back of her chair. "Did the Lord Wolf-ling fix you?"

 

She huffs. "Firstly, my  _ name _ is Ariwyn. Secondly, I do not require fixing."

 

"You're a Waking one, they always need fixing." another elf chimes in, poking a finger at her. Her nose wrinkles up at the smell of alcohol on his hand - the hunters have drunk it before, foul-smelling stuff.

 

"Now, now, my friend, don't be so cruel," Feyrion knocks his hand aside. "She is a special one, this one. Lord Pride wouldn't have his paws all over her otherwise."

 

"Can you please stop talking about me like I'm not here?"

 

He sits up. "Yes, excuse my manners," then, he claps his hands, and jumps from his chair. "Now, some song, shall we?"

 

The group around them cheer, and two of them even get up as well, and push through the gathered circle to settle up at the top, beside where Feyrion's chair is. One of them hands him one of those harp instruments Solas has been teaching her to use, but this is larger, more like the ones she has found in the Waking world, and it sits between his legs. Both of his hands strum at the strings just once and the crowd - which has grown bigger since his offer of music - feels much more alive. It is no longer as dazed as when she joined it.

 

The woman that joined him sits beside him, on the ground, legs folded under her. In her hands she holds a flute, carved from a dark wood that is hand-painted with elegant golden swirls that start at the head and trail off at the very bottom of the instrument. The man who came to join the band retrieves a pair of drums, and these are something she is much more familiar with; the clan had a few sets, that they would bring out on hearty nights to sing cheery songs and dance around the fires. Or, they would be used to set a sombre backtrack for when she would sing a song with a few of the other men and women of the clan. Those were more for the children, to wow them whilst Keeper Deshanna told them the tales of their people.

 

The crowd settles, and Feyrion begins to play. It is soft, and melodic - he plays it better than Solas, with more patience for each note and a perfection to make just the right sound. She sits beside him, and cannot help the smile from growing on her lips at the expressions of the elves around her; all of them, eyes wide with glee, just like the children of a clan at a musical performance. She too, is amazed. She does not think she has ever seen someone play this instrument with such skill before.

 

When the other players join him, the song changes. At first, it was soft and light, but with the accompaniment of the flute and drum, it feels heavy, like a march. Still, the flute and harp retain their heavenly sound, and it keeps the song from slipping too hard into a more melancholy tone. Then, Feyrion begins to sing. 

 

His voice, perfectly in between high and low, resonates in the small circle between him and the nearly crowd. It is beautiful; he sings full words whilst the lady beside him makes noises wordlessly, her voice providing another soft layer. The song itself is a sad one, Ariwyn realises; he sings of a lover, a she or a he, she does not know,  who he has lost somehow. They disappeared away from him long ago, yet he still longs for them, still knowing that they cannot be together. It reminds her of her father. As cold as he was to her, he desperately loved her mother, she knew that. She  _ knows _ that. She wonders what type of woman she was. To put up with her father, she must have had a strong will, a mind of her own. She must have been strong, and from how her father talked of her she was beautiful, too. Her mother was the Keeper's First, once. How she longed to know about her, to know her, to speak with her. 

 

When he stops singing, the crowd don't know what to do. She doesn't, either; she is unsure whether to laugh or cry at the performance, the music had been so powerful she would not be surprised if there had been magic involved. Finally, they decided to applaud, cheering and whooping, and she joins in, giving a polite clap whilst trying to shake off whatever magic the performers had used to sway her so. 

 

"What did you think, young one?" Feyrion asks once the crowd has settled, and the instruments are put away. She has collected herself now, and listens to the soft hum of quiet talk around the hall. 

 

"It was wonderful." she admits, smiling softly. "I was not expecting it, to be honest."

 

He waves a hand. "Most elves have learned an instrument or two in their lifetimes, it is dull enough that most master all."

 

Immortality, being  _ dull _ ? She cannot imagine it - there is so much time, so much to learn. Every moment would be dedicated to discovering and answering every one of life's mysteries. That is what she would do with it, anyway. These elves seem content on eating, lounging and  _ occasionally _ doing something worthwhile. 

 

"I have some questions, about what you told me earlier." she says, shifting in her chair. He notices it, and raises a brow.

 

"Nervous?" 

 

"No. Just prepared."

 

"For what? To run?" he laughs.

 

She supposes she does not know. To leave and stop listening, perhaps. Or to silence him before he tells her something she should not hear.

 

Feyrion shifts too, but settles more comfortably, looking very relaxed. "Alright, go ahead. Ask me anything you wish to know." 

 

She asks him many questions, about how this reality works. He knows a lot, but does not speak of the intricacies of the Fade like Solas does - perhaps he does know as much as him. He explains that this layer of the Beyond was carved out by the Evanuris, like an alcove on the lip of a mountain; the mountain being the Veil, and they can view past the mountain wall like a window, to see the mortal realm. Fen'Harel is the most adapt at crossing it and so he is the only one who does. The rest either do not bother or cannot. The small secluded area of the Beyond these ancient elves call home is maintained by spirits and powerful elves alike; their magic is what holds everything up, and makes everything work as it would in the mortal world. 

 

"It is why magic is so potent here, from what I've heard of what it is like in your world." he continues, interlacing his fingers and settling them on his abdomen. He is so relaxed in his chair that he is almost laying flat on it. "If someone wills their magic to be strong enough, it breaks through the normality of the rest of the magic here. The ones holding it up are doing it subconsciously, so of course they don't have the willpower to monitor everyone else."

 

Solas had not been so quick to stop her magic that day when she nearly unleashed it on those elves not just because of their safety, but because she could tear through the fabric of reality itself? Or perhaps non-reality, in this case? It is all very confusing. 

 

"Magic is used sparingly because of it." 

 

Her finger points up to the hovering crystals above their heads which provide a warm glow of light across the hall. "That does not look sparingly."

 

He shrugs. "In your world perhaps not. In ours, everything functions on basic magic."

 

Humming, she settles back in her chair. "You said you study curiosities?"

 

"Indeed I do. No one really ever takes me seriously because I express interest in the Waking world - to you, they are normal. To me, and everyone here - oddities."

 

He seems to become more attentive when she asks him about his questions. He asks her many simple things, like how they use water to bathe if they cannot use magic to make it run, or how they keep warm in cold winters if they cannot control the weather or heat up the air without setting people on fire. After the trivial matters are dealt with, he asks about the People left behind; she tells him of the Dalish - which he seems to know about already - and the city elves. He is more curious about these elves, she thinks, as he asks many questions, a lot of which she is unsure how to answer. For a long time, she has only considered the city elves as bad as shemlen, and she herself had not expressed interest in them. 

 

Then, she talks about the other races that have since become common in the Waking world. Shemlen and dwarves he knows of, as they were around during the times of Arlathan and the Dales. Qunari he is more unsure of, but seems less than interested when she tells him what they look like - "People with horns is not a feat. Watch." and with a swish of his hand, between his hair sprouts two small bony horns. Then, they are gone. 

 

"I am curious," he says, as he takes a bottle from an extended hand of an elf beside them, "Do you have this, in your realm?"

 

She grasps the bottle - it is heavy - in both hands and sniffs curiously at the liquid inside. It does not smell bad, like the drinks some of the other elves have consumed. It is sweet, like fruits and sugar. She is tempted to have some, she thinks. Only to  _ try _ , of course.

 

"I do not know. I have not drunk much other than water," she admits. He laughs, clapping her knee and beckoning for two cups from the other elves. They seem to respond quickly to his beck and call.

 

He pours her some, and some for himself. Hesitantly, she brings it to her lips, and it tastes just as it smells. It is delightful; she has never tasted something so light yet so wonderfully flavoursome that she asks for another cup as soon as she finishes the first. Perhaps she should not drink so much, but she cannot help it. As soon as she drinks enough of it, she feels so much more relaxed and calm than she would have been otherwise around these strange elves. 

 

"Come," Feyrion stands - a little shaky on his feet - and offers a hand to her. 

 

Frowning, she swigs from her cup. "Where?" she asks, but sets it aside regardless. It is empty.

 

"To have fun, of course!"

 

Fun sounds fun. Yes, it should, she thinks. Maybe she should stop that - that  _ thinking _ thing. Her head feels foggy.

 

He drags her by the hand through the hallways, after laughing and shouting groups of elves who have the same destination in mind. There are dozens of them, singing merry songs just like the hunters of her clan after a few drinks, and carry bottles and cups with them, tipping the precious drinks inside onto the ground which soaks it up like sponge.

 

"That was magic!" she points out, proud enough of herself for noticing it that she tells Feyrion with excitement.

 

"Yes, yes, little one. Magic." he agrees, and throws his head back as he gulps from the bottle in his hand - it is the same sweet, sweet drink. She is sure the bottle stays as full as it was before, while he drinks. 

 

They turn out into a courtyard under the light of the moon and stars, full to burst with elves, gathered merrily in a circle around the edges, cheering for groups that dance and prance around in the centre. There are spirits, too; they flit around the groups, or dance too, providing pretty lightshows for all around. Where on earth has this been all this time, she wonders? Why has she never stumbled upon some place so full with glee before now?

 

"People come here to dance away the night," he is leaning down on her, breathing in her ear. He is heavy. "You like to dance?"

 

"I am very good at dancing." Ariwyn tells him, full of pride. He cheers, and pulls her after him through the crowd of elves, all different but yet so beautiful, all united with the same markings of the goddess etched into their skin.

 

And they are all very,  _ very _ drunk.

 

People watch her, as if they know who she is, but she does not care. She dances around with Feyrion like they are alone, laughing and singing and celebrating as if they would in the clan, after a hunt that would feed them for weeks. There is some sort of pattern to the dance they are supposed to do, she notes, seeing the others clap in unison every so often, the women grasping and spinning their dresses and the men extending a bowed arm for them to take. She does not get it, but Feyrion does not care. They dance to their own tune, and she is too giddy to care to learn the intricate steps of the proper dance, right now.

 

Too much spinning around. With a laugh, she pulls Feyrion to a stop, pushing at him when he yanks her back to dance more. 

 

"What is the matter, little one?" he asks, his voice slurred, "Are you not having fun?"

 

"I feel very queasy," she admits with a laugh - maybe that should not be funny but she does not know. "I promise to you now that I will probably vomit all over your pretty hair if you do not let me go."

 

He  waves a hand at her. "Weak-bellied!" he bellows a laugh, and then stumbles back in amidst the dancers to find a new partner. If she had the coordination left in her to roll her eyes, she would have. 

 

Stumbling, she pushes through the crowds, mumbling a thank-you to the one woman who catches her when she loses her footing. When she reaches the edge, there are no elves here, and it is quieter than the centre of the maelstrom. She is glad; it was much, much too loud, her head hurt. 

 

Ariwyn finds a cold wall and sits by it, her head resting against it for a time. She breathes, softly, trying to relax her mind so she can perhaps block out the noise of the party still raging not far from her. It takes her a little while to realise she is not alone.

 

"Are you quite finished?"

 

_ Oh _ . She takes a second to realise she should have finished that thought with a,  _ No _ .

 

"No, considering you are not nearly as drunk as you need to be to talk to me right now." she pokes a finger accusingly at Solas, who stands before her the image of clarity; his arms, folded neatly behind his back; his hair, perfectly braided up behind him; his clothes, straight and neat. He has not been drinking, certainly not. 

 

"One does not need to be drunk to speak sense to someone who is." he says, and steps forward a little. 

 

"See? You make no sense - you need drink too."

 

He crouches before her, and his hand comes up to deftly brush the few strands of hair in her eyes up, and out of her face. She can see him a lot better now - he has so many freckles she has never noticed before, brushed over his nose and his cheeks, dusted up onto his forehead between his dark brows. They are cute, she thinks.

 

"I think you have had enough to drink," Solas says, and his two of his fingertips settle flat against her temple. Immediately, her head stops spinning and it is soothed, momentarily. She is nowhere near sober, however. 

 

"I think you are boring."

 

"Excuse me?"

 

Her eyes roll - she can do that, why didn't she try before? - and her own hand comes up to catch his wrist before he pulls it back. He clearly does not expect it, or the tug she pulls on it afterwards. He is very, very close. Enough that his breath hits her face. He is warm, as ever.

 

"Boring." she repeats, her voice barely a whisper. He can hear it, over the noise of the party, however. She barely notices that she wets her lips with her tongue. 

 

"I can assure you," he says, though there is a stutter in his voice, "That I am certainly not. You are simply very drunk."

 

She hums, contemplative. "No, not boring. You seem confused - shy maybe?"

 

"I am not shy."

 

"Then why, when I am confident now, are you not kissing me?"

 

He is taken aback by her words. For a moment, he tries to pull back from where he is, kneeling between her legs, a hand on the wall behind her head and the other grasped between hers. If anyone were to see them now, it would be interesting to hear the gossip the next morning. That barely crosses her mind now, however. 

 

"Not like this." Solas finally says. "You are not yourself. I would not take advantage of you like this."

 

"Like what?" she huffs in frustration. "I am perfectly rational."

 

"You mean irrational." he pulls his hand from her grasp, and moves back, despite her attempts to keep him there. He stands. "Return to your chambers and sleep. You are not suitable for any sort of conversation now."

 

Her eyes narrow. "Do not tell me what to do."

 

"I am your Master. You will do as I say."

 

"Do  _ not _ tell me what to do." she repeats, and there is a growl in her voice, now.

 

He tuts, under his breath. "If you do not listen when I give you orders for your own good, then you are unfit to be a servant. Why should I keep you?"

 

"Because Mythal ordered you to."

 

"No, she asked me to. You are not as important as you think you are."

 

As soon as the words have left him, there is something like regret that passes through his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak again, but does not. Wordlessly, she pushes herself to her feet, and leans on the wall for support - he is not good for it, now. 

 

"I should not have stayed." is all she says. 

 

His jaw sets tight. "No. Perhaps you should not have."

 

He turns on his heel, and stalks away down the corridor from which he came. There is something fuelling his quick, strong steps - anger? She does not care. Why should she? She is a fool, he is a fool, they are both fools. He does not like her, he never has. He has no reason to. Why did she think he did? 

 

Because he is gentle. He is kind, he is soft. He is  _ warm _ . He was.

 

She finds her way back to her chambers through some sort of miracle. Solas does not find her in her dreams, tonight. It is oddly cold. She feels alone, again. 

 

Despite her anger, she cannot wonder if he meant what he said. 


	11. Chapter 11

Ariwyn decides she is never going to drink again.

 

But just because she was drunk, it does not mean she forgives Solas.

 

And so she avoids him for a day. And the next day. And the day after that. She thinks she's doing remarkably well at staying as far from him as possible until she learns that the days lately have been particularly finicky and short, according to Feyrion. 

 

Her new friend has been fun to be around. Once he stopped calling her "little one," he almost seems her age; just with a much wiser and more knowledgeable mind. He finds her in the mornings when she wakes, and they spend most of the day together. They talk, he teaches her about the world they are in, and she teaches him about hers. He shows her more parts of the palace she did not even know existed, and helps her skills with the harp improve. She is not learning any magic anymore, nor is she studying any ancient elven history, language or traditions, but her teacher has not made any move to remedy that. So neither shall she.

 

It is during one harp lesson that she meets Benevolence again. 

 

The spirit, slightly larger than it used to be, pounces through the wall behind Feyrion. He sits across from her, his hands at his own harp, lost in the music he is making. He does not notice Benevolence enter, but the mischievous look on the spirit's face tells her she should not announce it. It hops around the room like a fawn on a cloud, and finally, dives through Feyrion's chest and lands on her lap in one fluid movement. The elf's eyes go wide and he jumps out of his seat, and even squeals.

 

"Got you!" the spirit giggles, playfully. 

 

"What on-" his eyes land on the spirit that snuggles into her, "You!" he accuses, "That wasn't very kind of you now, was it?"

 

The spirit wiggles its half-there tail at him. "It was, really. Not to you, but the Waking one! You got lost in yourself again, and she is waiting."

 

She would not have put it so bluntly, but the spirit is not wrong. 

 

In the end, the lesson becomes less about the harp and more about spirits. She feels like Solas would explain it better than Feyrion, but it does not matter. He tells her spirits take many forms and change shape, and tries to explain how the spirit wells work but gets it completely wrong. If Solas were here to hear it, she could only imagine the look of rage on his face with each fact that tumbles out of Feyrion's mouth with far too much confidence for one who does not know what they are talking about. 

 

"He is not angry, you know." the spirit says to her, quietly, cutting Feyrion's rambles short. 

 

"But I am." she huffs.

 

Benevolence tips its head to the side. "For one who is angry with him, you think about him a lot."

 

"Do not go into my mind."

 

Feyrion shrugs and lowers himself back into his chair. "It is a spirit, it cannot help it. It wishes to help, that is all."

 

Softly, Ariwyn sighs. "Do you think I will get into trouble for avoiding Pride?"

 

Another shrug. "Depends on who would find out." he says, "I doubt you will with the wolf himself. He is not the type."

 

"Why are you angry at him?" Benevolence asks, its voice soft and gentle, like her warm blankets in the morning. 

 

Ariwyn huffs. "Can you not simply see it in my mind?"

 

"Yes, but talking about problems can help to make them better. I want to help."

 

She sets her harp aside, and sinks into her chair. The spirit goes with her, hovering just above her body for a moment until she is still again, and she feels a light press as it settles upon her once more. 

 

"He told me what to do."

 

Feyrion snorts. "Well,  _ yes _ ? Is that not what a noble does with his servants?"

 

She suddenly feels very much like a sulking child. "He has never given me orders before. No one has."

 

As the spirit looks up at her intently with its sole eye, reassuring magic rolling off it in waves, Feyrion buries his face in his hands in the background. He groans. 

 

"You cannot be serious - you are angry at him because you are ill-suited for your own job?"

 

Sitting up, she squares her shoulders. The spirit tumbles to the ground. "I am not ill-suited."

 

"But you can't even take orders without getting upset!"

 

"He told me I should not be here, that is why!" she snaps, and jumps from her seat, folding her arms and stomping angrily to the windows. Outside, the world seems to shift, and she is still not used to it. "He told me I should not even be among the people, that I should have stayed in the Waking world. He does not want me here."

 

Benevolence quietly steps beside her, and floats up onto the window sill, barely visible in the sunlight pouring into the room. 

 

"He did not say that." it says, simply. 

 

"He might as well have-"

 

"He did not say it."

 

It is rather pushy, for a spirit of Benevolence. 

 

Gently, it trots up to her, and pushes up against her; it is wobbling again, like jelly. "He misses you." it says, "And you miss him."

 

"It has been a few days. Immortals cannot be so fickle." she says, coldly. 

 

Feyrion joins her at the window, and sets a hand on her shoulder. "You would be surprised," he tells her. 

 

Despite Benevolence's words, she cannot shake the feeling that Solas had meant what he had said. It was also true that she did not take well to his orders, even when they were for her own good, as he had told her. She does not want to go back to him, not yet. Especially if she cannot do the one job that has allowed her to live so comfortably here for so long. She is also frightened that he does not want her back. 

 

Her days mostly play out the same as they used to, just no Solas. Not in person, not in dreams. During her Fade trips, she has felt watched every so often, but knowing that is all she felt when she first arrived it makes her less certain it is him. She is still careful in the Fade, though; without Solas, she feels like she should be even more cautious about the spirits she sees flitting about in her Dreams.

 

She teaches herself to manipulate the Fade, a little. She reins in the accidental burning she used to do to the nature around her simply by touching it; she finds, if she focuses hard enough, she is able to prevent it from happening. By imagining various things, she can make them happen, and before long she transforms her little slice of the Beyond. There is a pond she creates, with a small babbling creek trickling into it, but the water appears like that of the well, or the plateau Solas took her to. It is warm and refreshing. She also manages to twist the trees and undergrowth around her to make the area more secluded and tucked away; she does not feel like she is in the middle of a field, unprotected now.

 

One night, whilst she is sat beside the creek in her dreams, fingers dancing across the grass and drawing up flowers around her, someone enters her garden. At first, she is not too wary, as, without thinking about it much, she assumes it is probably Solas, or Feyrion. When she looks up, however, the trees bend back into the shape she set them in as a spirit trots in past the outside wall of nature.

 

It is quite large, like Solas as a wolf. Deep in its core, green light hums and sends glowing pulses around its form; it is shaped like a deer, she realises. Or an elk. Too large, though - a halla? It is strange to try to imagine it as one, what with it being so green and translucent. Around the edges of its form, the light is thicker, like a barrier holding its being in; it is stronger than she has seen on any spirit in the other realm where she spends her days awake. Perhaps the Fade makes it so. 

 

"You have a nice dream-home." the spirit says, and treks over to the pond. Its resonating voice is familiar.

 

"Benevolence?" Ariwyn asks in surprise, rising to her feet. "You look-"

 

"Larger?" its head cocks to the side, "Yes, the Fade makes me stronger. What do you think?"

 

She smiles, and reaches out to touch the spirit. Her hand settles on something solid, and does not pass through, like when she is awake. She pets the spirit's neck, gently, like she would a real halla - it does not do well to startle them, she remembers. She wonders if the spirit behaves the same. 

 

"I think you look wonderful." she tells it, truthfully. If the spirit is a halla, it is the most beautiful one she has ever seen, even more so than the legendary golden halla her clan had been envious of; another clan they had crossed paths with were led by her. 

 

"Have you given it any more thought?" Benevolence asks, as it settles down onto the ground, its rear legs folded elegantly around it. "About the prideful one?"

 

She snorts at the name. "It does not matter how much I think about it, his words still sting."

 

"As yours do." it retorts calmly.

 

Huffing, she sits beside the spirit. "Did he mean what he said? About me not being important?"

 

"Are any of us, really?" the spirit asks, dipping its head down, "What we do in our lifetimes are merely ripples in a great, great pond."

 

Ariwyn refrains from rolling her eyes. It sounds like Keeper Deshanna.

 

Benevolence gives her a proper answer, however. "He did, and he did not. A being who has lived as long as he possesses different values of importance. You are important now, in this small passage in time. But consider that you are a mortal; you have lived what feels like a blinking moment to him."

 

Hugging her knees to her chest, Ariwyn closes her eyes and asks, "Will I ever be anything but mortal?"

 

"You are more than that. One definition of your being does not make you who you are." 

 

"No, Benevolence, will I stay a mortal? Or- can I become immortal?"

 

Its sole eye looks up at her, with a curious gaze. "You are in the eternal dream. Everyone is immortal, here."

 

She wonders if her body will die and wither in the real, real world. She wonders if that has already happened to the bodies of the elves who have lived in this reality of the empire for so long. What has happened to the true body of Fen'Harel? Or the Evanuris?

 

"We are not alone," Benevolence says, suddenly. Its head lifts, and turns, as if looking for a source of a noise she cannot hear.

 

"It is nothing, I always feel like I am watched here."

 

"Because you are." the spirit looks back to her, seriously. "There is something else here." then, it stands, and speaks louder, "Reveal yourself."

 

For a moment, nothing happens. The garden remains quiet, as if Benevolence had not spoken. She forgets that there is no wind here, no sounds of footsteps, of nature disturbing itself. It feels wrong, she realises; this reality she has created for herself in her dreams is suddenly very, very false. 

 

Then, out of the garden wall creeps another spirit. It glows the same colour as every spirit, but it feels- different. Other spirits she has met have felt gentle, passive. This one, it feels alive, like fire. It moves, creeps, its tendrils reaching out across the floor like snakes. It has too many eyes, like Fen'Harel; there are eight of them along the front of it. She is unsure what animal it is trying to look like. 

 

Perhaps it is not imitating an animal at all. 

 

"Leave us, Prudence," Benevolence warns, and backs up closer to where Ariwyn stands. It is not an act of fear, but a move to protect, she realises. "We have no need for your shrewd knowledge here."

 

The unfamiliar spirit's voice is deep, it rattles her bones. This being is old, very, very old.

 

"Not you, perhaps." it says, and it almost sounds like its very voice is chuckling. "But the young one - that one requires the knowledge of which I possess."

 

Benevolence is surprisingly sharp with it. "No one requires yours." then, to her, it says, "This spirit hoards knowledge, gathers it through any means necessary; it even steals souls to attain what it seeks. Do not make any bargains with it."

 

It reminds her of what she has heard of Desire demons. Perhaps not precisely the same, but it is willing to go to far ends in order to reach its goals. 

 

The other spirit, Prudence, creeps closer. It bends, and twists, trying to see her properly around Benevolence. Perhaps spirits cannot see through each other like she can, for she can look back at it very well past Benevolence's glowing form. 

 

"A little mortal, so barely beyond the cusp of adulthood," the spirit breathes, and she is beginning to wonder if it really is a spirit, or a demon. "Brought to the world not only of dreams, but hers, too. So desperate to be accepted, and trusted. So eager to know the secrets only immortals keep close, yes?"

 

"You do not have to listen," Benevolence tells her, "You do not need it to tell you that you are one of the People."

 

"Oh, I did not say  _ that _ ." Prudence laughs. "She is not, far from it in fact. The Dreaded Wolf, the prideful one - he tried to welcome her in and she turned her back on it by disgracing herself with the shunned ones of the Protector's."

 

The elves at that party - they did not seem shunned. They seemed alive, full of joy and glee and if anything, felt more real than anyone she had met in this world. Perhaps that was why they had been shunned, because they do not behave as Mythal wants them to. 

 

"He has not turned his back." Benevolence shakes its head. 

 

Prudence moves quickly, and swims in the air around the gentle halla spirit before her. She turns with it, and her back presses against the side of Benevolence. It sneaks closer, and examines her with its many eyes. 

 

"I can show you." it offers, and its tendrils creep towards her. "I can teach you, in a blink of an eye. I can show you all which you need to become one of the People."

 

"What would you show me?" she asks. She is, admittedly, a little curious. Of course, she knows the spirit - or demon - would want something in return. 

 

Its head tilts curiously to the side. "I would give you the knowledge of a civilisation as old as the golden pantheon themselves. You would see it rise, and fall, and rise again, only to be felled once more. Every intricacy of speech, art, movement, etiquette. The history of your prideful master."

 

The last part is tagged on, as if the spirit knows it will interest her. It does, more than she would like to admit. Solas has told her about himself but not nearly enough - she does not know him, not well enough to trust his words were not truth. Benevolence's words earlier had not done much to dissuade her worries, either. Being merely important  _ right now _ was not enough. 

 

"And what would you want from me?" Ariwyn presses, and Benevolence shifts uncomfortably behind her. She knows the spirit does not think it is a good idea, it is obvious.

 

Prudence makes a humming sound. It is too loud for something that has no mouth, or nose. "I would see your world, from your mind. Let me have your memories of what you left behind."

 

"You mean to take them from me, completely?"

 

"Perhaps."

 

She swallows. Perhaps letting the spirit have them would not be so bad - she would not have any reason to go back, then. But no, she would forget Seron, the Keeper, her father, the clan. She would forget Thedas, the crimes of the shemlen, perhaps even her understanding of their language. The truth, all of it, would be taken from her.

 

"No." Ariwyn shakes her head, and glares at the spirit with a certainty in her eyes. "You may look, but you will take nothing from me."

 

The spirit seems to accept the terms. It appears to, at least, she cannot tell. It slips backwards, just a little, and its tendrils reach for her, trying to beckon her away from Benevolence. For a moment, she hesitates, reluctant to leave the side of the spirit that she trusts. It warned her not to trust Prudence - perhaps she should not. But then, the knowledge it offers cannot hurt her, really.

 

"Come, mortal one," says the spirit, and offers what look like hands to her, "Become one of the People."

 

She steps forward, and takes its hands. 

 

-

  
  


There is a great city, sat on the edge of the horizon. It glows in the sunset light, ivory white spires twisting up to pierce the clouds high above, beautiful golden gates keeping it safe, protected. Magic swirls around its tallest towers like a bird chasing another, powerful, beautiful. The city hums, and glows, alive with the breath of the People, when they were strong, undefeated, greater than shemlen or the children of the Stone. 

 

Then, it is alive with fire. The city burns, and the People weep. The Evanuris, their great leaders - they take them from the city and leave it for others to claim, reluctant but left with no choice. There is an enemy almost as strong as they, chasing and hunting - the Forgotten Ones. They are seen, in flashes; great dragons that look twisted, changed, corrupted by the power of a dark magic that sings to them. There are three of them; Geldauran and Daern'thal and Anaris, gods of terror, spite and pestilence. Before them, the Evanuris shine, they are beacons to which the People flock to after the collapse of their great Empire, destroyed by their enemies. 

 

With the city gone, the Evanuris mourn, and fall deep into the eternal waking dream before any of their followers. Fen'Harel, deceiving the Forgotten Ones, claims he has murdered the great Lady Protector, Mythal, and the pantheon submitted before him. The great wolf, with his many eyes, leads them to where the Evanuris sleep, only for them to be cast down from the heavens and trapped in a world without magic. They are on the wrong side of the Veil, the side for which they were not planned to be on. Fen'Harel knows this, and wakes the Evanuris on the side of the Beyond, where they together carve out a realm for the People. 

 

Like he does with the Waking ones in what is left of the Empire today, Fen'Harel took the People to the new world. There they flourished and grew without the fear of Geldauran, Daern'thal and Anaris. For a time, the Evanuris are content. They stir now, though the spirit, Prudence, does not know the cause of their unrest. 

 

On the other side, where those that cannot be saved are trapped with the Forgotten Ones, the shemlen rise up stronger than the remains of the Empire. There is a war, between the mortals; Prudence did not care to discover why, but the connection he has with the mortal now tells him why they fought. Belief, religion, faith; a holy war. The lost People fight with the winning side, and are rewarded with a chance to begin anew. 

 

A second city rises. It is almost as beautiful as the first, but there is no life here, no magic. The quiet singing of the Forgotten Ones is soft, and lapses into silence. Then, the city falls, again. The shemlen steal it, and make it the capital of the place the mortals call Orlais. Val Royeaux, they call it; at its heart lies Halamshiral, the Winter Palace. It is cold here, without magic. 

 

Prudence reaches beyond itself. Its hungry eyes and ears devour the mortal's knowledge, and dig to piece the puzzle of the mortal realm together. It is not a complete picture; it is like an artist's rendition. Not everything pictured is true to reality, and whilst the painting stays the same, new life grows and changes around it. It takes what knowledge it seeks, and retreats. 

 

It shows the mortal what it has left. From the ruins of the Empire, it stole. There were memories left behind, relics of the past. There were bodies, whose souls were lost and without direction. It gave them that direction, by putting their existences to use in its own mind. The mortal shakes a little in its grasp - "Too much," it whispers, "Too much pain."

 

The spirit does not stop. It promised everything, so it gives everything. The mortal weeps before it - it is weak, it thinks, cannot handle simple memories of the long-dead legacy the People left behind. But amongst the pain and the suffering, the mortal sees, it hears, it watches. It  _ learns _ .


	12. Chapter 12

When Prudence releases her, she collapses to the ground.

 

The grass, under her touch, uncontrolled, burns. _She_ burns - so much, too much. The spirit gave so much more than it offered, so much more than she thought it would give.

 

Her head feels heavy. Her heart feels heavy. So much pain, so much suffering. Prudence gave her knowledge of the People, yes, but it did not promise to see the pain of them, too. She feels so alert, but so tired, so wise yet so young.

 

“This was a mistake.” she hears Benevolence say, harshly. “She is but a mortal! How could she possibly comprehend so much?”

 

Prudence hums, and she feels its tendrils snaking along her back; the contact feels wrong, now. She feels like she knows she should be wary of it. Should get as far away from it as possible. “She made a deal.” it simply says.

 

Benevolence does not say anything - perhaps because it knows Prudence is right. It does not matter, not really, as she cannot concentrate. There are whispers in the back of her mind, cries, sounds of anguish and agony. There are others too, softer, whispering things to calm her mind. The voices are old, and she feels older than she is for harbouring them in her mind. _What are they?_ she wonders, _And why do won't they stop crying?_

 

It is cold. The garden is dark now, no more false sun to keep it bright. There are wails outside her head, echoing far too loud to be her imagination.

 

"It is not safe here anymore." one of the spirits say - Benevolence? "Demons draw close."

 

Sorrow, Despair. She knows before the spirit even tells her what they are Demons of - the voices in her head tell her so, they cry out to the demons as much as call to her. She suspects the voices in her head to be demons of Despair themselves; why else would their wails be so _loud_?

 

"You must control yourself, mortal," Benevolence says, and she feels the spirit's warmth creep closer, "Contain your thoughts, control your mind. Do not succumb to your newfound knowledge."

 

"It is not knowledge." Ariwyn breathes, her own voice barely louder than those inside her head, "It is pain."

 

The Despair demons, they come closer. They invade her garden, her safe haven, her refuge in the Beyond. Her breaths become huffs of small green clouds in the cold air, her fingers turn icy, she shivers. Despite the voices clawing their way out of her mind, she is able to look up, to see; Prudence is gone, but Benevolence remains, stood between her and the dark, screeching beings in tattered cloaks, drifting closer with their skeletal fingers reaching out, to grab, to take. She is unsure what the spirit plans to do; she knows spirits can be corrupted, but by other demons? Is that possible? She does not want Benevolence harmed because of her actions.

 

"You must go," Benevolence tells her quickly, "Wake, mortal. You cannot stay here."

 

Shakily, she pushes herself up with her arms, until she can sit back and see. "I am not leaving you here." she says with a shake of her head, though the demons are more intimidating than she expected. There are so many, so many dark, faceless figures, all screeching noise and no purpose. They approach like as a slow  tide against a shore, but with the intent of a crashing wave against a mountainside.

 

She has never faced a demon before.

 

Amongst the black and twisting green of the Fade around them, her perfect garden coming apart at the seams, there is a flash of red. At first, she thinks it to be the flowers that she had so painstakingly set down, one by one, but no; this glows. Like the eyes of Fen'Harel.

 

For a moment, the eyes simply creep, surveying, as if deciding the best course of action. Will he watch in amusement and wait for the demons to pick apart the little mortal? The little mortal with so much knowledge, too much. He does not know this yet. Or will he step amongst the chaos, drive back the demons that haunt her and rescue a spirit in the process?

 

The great wolf decides to do the latter.

 

In he swoops, with grace befitting of a halla but the ferocity expected of a wolf. Some of the Despair demons almost immediately dive back at the sight of him, hissing and jerking back in the air from him. Despite their fear, and their attempted escape, Fen'Harel does not let them go. He dives after them and captures one in his jaws, clamping down so hard the demon splits with a wail. It shatters into green blood in his fur, and onto the next one he dives.

 

He is not white, she realises. It is Fen'Harel, not Solas. Not _Pride_.

 

Some of the demons try to fight back when they realise he is eating through them fast. Four are devoured before the rest even realise, but when they do, the group splits, half still on the hunt of her and Benevolence, and the other half twisting and forming a wall of demons between them. She loses sight of Fen'Harel the moment a wicked spell of ice shoots at where he was stood, and more quickly follow.

 

She shrieks, as the cold wispy fingers of Despair touch her skin, jagged nails tracing up the vallaslin on her arm. Instinctively, without any thought from her, she spins and her other arm catches a bright flame as she does; it is not normal flame. It is green. Her hand goes straight through the demon, and immediately she is repulsed by the sickly green liquid that trails down her arm the moment the demon explodes. It is not the same water from the well; it is thicker and darker, and feels and smells like blood. Demons can _bleed_.

 

With a horrifying chorus of shrieks, the demons dive on them, her and the spirit both. Some primal instinct in her takes over, and she can barely keep control of her own limbs as they move in ways that they have never, with a grace that is not hers. She cuts through the demons that come for her, and before she lands every hit, the voices in her head - male, female, indistinct - they all whisper in tandem: "Behind you," "To your left," "Not there, move." It is utterly disorientating; she feels like a spectator in an audience, while someone else controls her body, and the voices in her head are around her in the seats.

 

Benevolence is surprisingly agile on the battlefield for something supposed to be... benevolent. It does not strike, she realises, only dodges, only distracts when they get too close to her. She finishes what the spirit does not wish to, and before long she is covered in so much demon blood that she feels like a million baths will not wash it off. Only once does a demon touch her, and it leaves a clawed mark across her back. It hurts, of course it does, but whatever is possessing her does not falter for a second. Trapped up in her mind with the other voices, she cries with the pain; the voices join her. She has a headache, now.

 

When the garden settles, finally does she regain control of herself. With a shot of pain through her back, she drops to her knees once more, and Benevolence rushes to her, places its snout against her head. There is one, final shriek of agony from one of Despair; she looks up, and sees Fen'Harel crush its head in his giant teeth. His black fur is soaked with a glowing, almost pulsing green blood. It looks more sickly on him than it does her.

 

It is quiet now. The voices simply hum at the back of her mind.

 

Fen'Harel comes to them, and Benevolence steps back without a word. Confused, Ariwyn tries to spin to watch him as he slowly makes a circle around her, like she is his prey now that he is done hunting Despair. Instead, he stops when his tail swoops down over her shoulders - it is warm, despite the blood - and his head stoops. His jaws part, and his tongue licks up her back.

 

Her first instinct is to move. Away from it, that is, but there feels like an instantaneous relief in her wound, as if he had applied something cold to a burn. With a single lick, it feels like her skin melds back together, her clothes reattach, as if it had never been split in the first place.

 

" _What did you do?_ " is the first thing he says. He does not sound pleased - she will not ask about how - or _why_ \- he has a magic tongue at this moment, then.

 

"I learned," she mumbles. It is not a lie, not really.

 

He stomps some more around her, and his head lowers to her face. His six eyes narrow at her, as if scrutinizing her. Then, he looks up, beyond her. Benevolence stands behind.

 

"She made a deal with Prudence." it tells him. Traitor.

 

Immediately, the wolf's head snaps back to her. His eyes are unsure what to display, now; half of them are wide in disbelief and the other almost squinted shut in fury. She tries to scramble away, to stand for herself to explain herself, but his paw stamps down on her leg, and all she succeeds in doing is falling to the floor. He looms over her, and a low growl rumbles in his chest.

 

" _You do not make deals you cannot possibly hope to understand_." he warns - a little late. " _I have never met someone so foolish! You endangered yourself and another just so you might be a little wiser?_ "

 

"I am wise enough now not to make the same mistake again." she snaps, and regrets it instantly. She pushes herself back flat against the ground as his nose comes threateningly close to her face.

 

" _That does not excuse you_."

 

Almost, she comments on the way he spoke. _Excuse you_ , as if her very being was an accident.

 

Her hands curl into fists, and she pushes at him, struggles in vain to get him away. He stays exactly where he is, does not move a single inch no matter how hard she tries. In the end, she gives up, and presses her hands to her face. She's hiding. From the best hunter known to Elven legend.

 

Right in front of his face.

 

" _You are a fool_." Fen'Harel snaps, harshly. " _And I was a fool to believe mortals could become part of the People._ "

 

"They can." she mumbles. Her voice is quiet.

 

He snorts. " _Then you do not make a good case of it, do you?_ " then, she feels his heavy head shake. " _You are a danger to yourself and those that get close to you. I will return you to your clan._ "

 

"No!"

 

Her hands fly from where they are holding in the tears in her eyes, and grasp at his fur, instead. He is surprised by that, watching her pale fingers scurry up his legs, to reach up to as close to his face as she can reach.

 

"Please do not take me back," Ariwyn breathes, and bows her head, "I am a fool, you are right. But I promise to you, I will not make any more mistakes."

 

For a moment, he stays still. Then, he says, " _You cannot see the future. I, however, have lived long enough to know that trusting someone is folly._ "

 

"Then you must be very lonely."

 

He seems to consider what she says. She does, too; thinking on it, she has not seen anyone he seems close to, or even on friendly terms with. The elves in Mythal's palace are wary of her because of who she serves, sometimes even frightened. None of the Council seem to like or even respect him. Mythal herself is simply insulting, staking a claim over him as if he is a pet.

 

No one likes him, she realises.

 

Sniffling, and trying to force back the tears, she sits up, slowly. The blood in his fur lingers but she leans forward and pushes into his chest, her arms reaching as far around his great form as she can.

 

"I am sorry." she whispers, "I am so, so sorry. Please do not take me back."

 

" _I am not who you should be directing your apologies to._ "

 

He allows her to stand, and she walks to where Benevolence sits, watching. The halla looks so majestic here in the fade, as opposed to the small mess of a creature with a collective of limbs. Long, twisting antlers, bright glowing surface, a single shining eye. It waits.

 

"I am sorry, Benevolence." she says, and she means it. "I did not listen to your advice and I endangered you for it. Thank you, for helping to protect me."

 

Benevolence looks up at her. She cannot tell what it is thinking, or feeling. Do spirits feel?

 

"I did not protect you." it vibrates a little as it speaks. "Those within you did. You walk heavy with the lives of those that did not see the fall of Arlathan. I hope your bargain was worth it."

 

Uncertainly, she places a hand against her head. "You can hear them?" she asks.

 

"No," the spirit's head falls to the side, "But I can see. You are different, now. There is too much for one mortal before me. You are strong."

 

She is unsure whether she should feel complimented or not. Regardless, Benevolence bows its head.

 

"You are forgiven, as long as I can help those that you are cursed with." it tells her. She is unsure what it means by that, but she nods. Perhaps it can remove the voices from her mind. She hopes it can - they are too loud.

 

When she turns back to Fen'Harel, he is sat watching her. There is a quiet whistle, and she finds Benevolence gone. It feels like wind rushes past, and tugs at her hair, but the garden is gone so her weather is too. Reaching for the locks of her hair covering her eyes, she pushes it back behind her shoulder, and he is still there. All six eyes blink in a ripple from top to bottom.

 

" _The spirit was right_." he says. " _I see not just you anymore. There are others in your soul._ "

 

"Prudence showed me everything." she tells him, and steps a little closer. His eyes watch her closely. "I saw so much, I heard so much. There are voices in my head."

 

 _Not him_ , one voice whispers, suddenly loud. She stops walking closer. _Dreaded, feared. Do not. Broken trust, murdered love._

 

The other voices chime in, whispering so many words and warnings that she grows dizzy. There is too much, _Quiet_ , she thinks, but none of them listen. It is like trying to control a dozen butterflies. None of them do as she says. Maybe they do not understand, like the butterflies.

 

Why is she thinking of butterflies?

 

Her eyes open again, but she is not awake. She is still in the Fade, with Fen'Harel. Only - he is not Fen'Harel anymore. He is Solas, and his pale face hovers above hers in the gloom, concern etched into him once more. She lays in his arms, and feels too weak for the power the voices in her head promise they give.

 

"Mortals are not made to last many lifetimes," he says, softly. "But you have millions in your mind."

 

Letting out a soft breath, she closes her eyes again. Still, she does not wake.

 

He lifts her, as if she weighs of nothing - perhaps she does, in the Fade - and when he sets her down again it is disorientating. It is not ground her sets her on; she sinks down into a pool of warm green water, which soaks into her skin and pulls the blood of Despair from her. Her back hits stone, beneath; it is not deep enough to cover her completely. She cracks open her eyes to see him pace a little at the edge of the pool where she lays.

 

"I will return to where your body sleeps." Solas says, finally. "If I cannot wake you there, I will find another way."

 

Without her even telling him, he knows she cannot return to reality. But which reality, she wonders - Uthenera, or the Waking world? Despite Benevolence's forgiveness, does he really plan to return her to where her clan roams the land like lost souls without a home? She does not want to go back.

 

Solas kneels, and his hand hovers just above her. The water rises, and forms a cocoon that  feels almost too tight around her, but she can still see him through it; it is like a spirit, she thinks.

 

"You will be safe here," he tells her. "If you wake while I am gone, then there will be no need for wards. My suspicions tell me otherwise."

 

He sounds unsure, uncertain. It is worrying; an elf as old as him seems to know all, and after being her tutor of his world for so long, it feels like he should. It frightens her. She wishes  to reach out and grab a hold of him before he can leave, but her head hits the barrier with a soft _bump_ , and it feels like glass. His eyes flash down to it for a moment, and his hand hesitates from pulling back. For a very short moment, his hand flattens against the barrier where hers touches the other side. Then, he stands, and goes.

 

Again, she is alone.


	13. Chapter 13

There is a place, hidden deep in the Arbor Wilds, where no one dares venture. Mostly, it is because it is unexplored territory inhabited with wild beasts and Chasind – considered one and the same by some. The Fifth Blight started here, too, the land poisoned and corrupted. For a time, it was a concern that the Blight would harm those who hide there, but magic is as powerful as its user.

 

That is what Fen’Harel likes to believe. It is proven when he returns to the Waking world, and roams among the Arbor Wilds and finds the ruins of the once great Temple of Mythal safe from tainted blood. Buried deep, deep beneath the temple are ruins of a civilisation long dead – but its rulers still sleep within. Chambers beneath the temple lead to catacombs, sealed away with wards and magic that none in this empty world could hope to break. It is here he goes, to find those sleeping.

 

The Veil feels thinner here. It is a breath of fresh air to feel the magics he is used to gently seep through like ink too heavy for thin parchment, not quite thin enough for it to pour through. He seals the wards behind him, and spends a short while repairing what feels spent. For too long has he maintained these barriers, too long have they hid. Still, he does not trust the world he sees around him, he does not even trust the wandering ones with pointed ears searching for purpose. There are so many sleeping souls in the tombs. Hundreds, thousands – and this is only one burial site. Still, he does not have the time at the moment to visit the others and lay down more wards; Ariwyn waits for him where demons linger. He cannot risk losing such a mind to a demon – the knowledge she has would prove disastrous in the hands of a twisted being.

 

He does not remember where he laid her to rest. There are too many bodies, too many dreaming. It feels like hours pass while he searches the halls, feeling melancholy as he gazes upon the upright stone coffins of the elves lining the walls, seeing their closed eyes and their vallaslin printed into the faces beyond the shimmering wards. So many, so many – why should they hide their people so in need of a home when this world, these people, hoard so much? Time has proven to them that they can find no allies in the other races of Thedas.

 

Finally, he finds her. She looks different in reality; her skin is not so soft-looking, it is more lifeless and does not glow with immortality; her hair lies dishevelled and darker than it appears beyond the Veil, falls over her shoulders out of the clean and tidy braids she so often wears. She is dressed in the same garments she wore the first day he brought her to Uthenera all those months ago, leathers and cloths created by a talented hand limited by tattered resources. Lifting a hand, the ward around her falls like a wash of water, and her body almost falls straight to the ground.

 

He forgets how magic works here.

 

He catches her, and for a moment simply waits, to see if taking her from her resting place would wake her. He did not suspect it would; there are too many voices in her mind to let her sleep in the Fade, she would not return if the souls persisted. There are a multitude of spells he tries, and wracks his mind for every single one he can think of that would not harm her. None of them cause any sort of reaction; she remains still in his arms, so devoid of life he would think her dead if he did not know better.

 

As he lifts her from where she lay on the ground, he wonders : what is he doing? She is but one life, and a foolish one at that. He should not spend his time attempting to protect her from the effects of her own mistake.

 

But it was a mistake. And she is his to watch over, and he did not. He will fix his mistake, he thinks. For not warning her against the harmful spirits of the Fade, of Prudence, who does not even know itself whether it is a spirit or demon. If anyone would know how she could be awoken it would be Wisdom. His friend, as old and as trusted as he, would know exactly what to do. It always does, it always will. Such is the way of a spirit of Wisdom – how he wishes he was one, and not one of Pride.

 

He does not put Ariwyn back where she previously lay. It would be foolish, to return her only to have to find her again later, after confiding with Wisdom. He should not, he knows, take her to where he is going. It is wrong, it would be considered sacrilegious if others discovered what he is doing. Still, it would prove easier, and he can always simply move her again if needs be. No one would know. No one could.

 

Marching through the halls with the sleeping mortal in his arms, Fen’Harel takes the final turn to enter the resting place of Mythal. It is wrong, but he does not slow. The doors swing open for him, stop before they hit the walls behind. The chamber is expansive, with high walls and an excess of space. Around the outside of the room, there are individual stone slabs; her most trusted council lie on them, protected under the same shimmering barriers which he created around the others. It is strange to see his own body on the slab to the left of the centre. In the centre is an altar, on which lies the Evanuris herself.

 

There is one slab that lies empty. It had been reserved for another of Mythal’s council that had fallen when the Veil rose. Another victim of senseless war.

 

Fen’Harel lays the mortal gently down on the surface. She is perfectly still, and it is a little alarming after seeing her so emotive and expressive in the reality carved out of the Fade. As he steps back, the barrier around her raises on its own; he had put enough magic into this chamber to protect it against a thousand assaults, and so it is almost alive itself. He glances around the chamber, and confirms that the bodies of those there are undisturbed. Mythal herself sleeps peacefully under the glow of crystals above her, but she too looks different in this world; her hair is not golden but grey, and lies beneath her like a rug. Her skin, so white it looks like bone, is thin around her bones. Before, it was these kinds of signs that would be telling that the elf in the eternal dream was about to die, in the real world. That does not happen, anymore. Not when he is their Guardian.

 

He approaches Mythal’s grave and settles a hand over her barrier. There is a small, bright shine, and then beneath, she looks full of life once more, the roots of her hairs drip liquid gold down to the very tips, spreading like fire. He repeats this with all of the bodies lying in the chamber, even himself. His body is worryingly frail, and his hair is as silver as the fur he likes to wear as a wolf in the Fade. After a moment, he looks like his reflection once more.

 

Admittedly, he would like to spend time doing this for everyone in the catacombs. He does, sometimes, go through every person individually, and it can take days, weeks. Mostly, it is all he can do to hope sending out a pulse of magic is enough to stop the bodies from withering away. The Council thinks he simply paints and lazes around all day; the truth is the very opposite, and they are the ones lazing in comparison.

 

There is a well in this chamber; a spirit well, like those in the Fade. Unlike those however, the water in it sits still, like a pond undisturbed. As he approaches, it does not slosh around in excitement, it does not reach and pull. When it was built, it was designed as a swift way for him to enter and exit Uthenera. They had not predicted just how much the world would change. Now, it is little more than glorified communication.

 

It is as if Wisdom knows it is wanted. Normally he would warn against spirits entering this realm, but here it is safe, amongst the pungent magic. From the pool in the well it rises, sloppily, like a sculpture made of clay that was much too wet. The spirit comes to a shape before him, but it does not retain it well; the water on it slips off and droops back into the pool in heavy, oozing waves. It is a little disconcerting, but the spirit does not appear pained.

 

"My friend," it greets, and its head bows as well as it can.

 

"It is good to see you well." Solas too bows his head, though he knows his moments are cleaner than that of the spirit. In the Fade, perhaps not. "I am in need of your help."

 

The spirit lets out a long, low hum. "It has been a very long time since the Great Wolf has needed my help." it says, and almost sounds amused. "You are confused, friend." now, there is concern.

 

His hand lifts from where he hand them clasped together behind his back, and gestures to the sleeping form of Ariwyn to his right. "The foolish mortal Mythal gave to me made a deal with Prudence. Now, she is not simply _her_ anymore. When I see her, I see others, I feel others. I do not know what has happened, or how to fix it."

 

Wisdom hesitates before speaking, "The mortal sleeps. Where does she walk?"

 

"She cannot be woken here, but I have not tried in the eternal waking dream, yet. Though her attempts have proven unfruitful."

 

The spirit sinks down slowly into the pool. "Then I will see this many-minded mortal for myself."

 

He bites his lip. He had hoped the spirit would have answers, or at least some knowledge of this happening before. But of course, expecting immediate results never pays. Wisdom would be able to find a mortal with ease in the Fade, but he supposes he should join it.

 

Many years ago, Solas mastered the art of falling asleep on command. It really wasn't hard when he discovered the right magic to trick his mind into unconsciousness, but it is incredibly helpful, especially when there is haste to enter and leave the Fade. Oftentimes, there is, with his work. It does not matter where he lays, for his real body is in relative comfort as it has been for millennia. He settles down where he stands, and closes his eyes. Then, he is in the Fade.

 

He is quick to traverse through the Fade. He knows it better than any being besides spirits and demons, and is faster on four legs than two. The pool he left Ariwyn at is secluded, and hidden behind many wards and barriers; he thought it best to put her somewhere where no more demons, not even Prudence could find her. Wisdom has already worked its way through them, however. It is one of the few spirits who has known him long enough to see holes in his spells. It always closes them behind it afterwards.

 

Wisdom is perched on the edge of the pool. Here, it looks much truer to itself; an owl, with many beady eyes that flick up when he enters, but turn back down to the prison in the pool. Its feathers glow with the green of the Fade, its form much larger and more solid here. His friend is a wonderful creature to look at, such a form is so telling of its nature.

 

Ariwyn lays in the pool still, where he left her. Beneath the barrier, she lies almost exactly the same as how he left her in the Waking world, laid flat on her back, hair splayed beneath her, fingers folded delicately together and set upon her midsection. Her eyes are closed, focusing hard on something, it appears. If not for the strained, tight brows, he would think her ready for a funeral.

 

As he crouches at the edge of the pool, the barrier lowers, the shield dissipating into little flakes that fade into the air. His hand reaches out, and settles flat against her brow. The tenseness in her features loosens and after a moment, her eyes flitter open. For a moment, he had seen inside her mind; chaos, fire, screams and death. His hand jumped away from her as fast as she scrambled to sit up - whatever he had expected to see, that was not it.

 

"What did Prudence give you?" he breathes, a little horrified. That a spirit would give a mortal so much agony...

 

Her eyes go down to the water of the pool, lapping around her palms. "It promised it would show me everything I needed to know," she says, and looks up at him, uncertain, "It offered to give me the knowledge I needed to be a true part of the People."

 

He is unsure  whether to feel disappointed or sympathetic. Waking ones, always so desperate to reclaim what they never had in their lifetimes, so eager to please and be a part of the culture they had longed for. He noticed, in her, that it was more so; being the Keeper's First in her clan proves she must be more knowledgeable about their history than most he brings to Uthenera. So much to learn, not enough new knowledge learned when retiring to sleep in a day. It is not really a surprise she turned to a spirit with plenty to give.

 

"You will be a part of the People," Solas tells her, and his hand reaches out, and settles atop hers. "It takes time to adjust. You rushed, and now you are suffering for it."

 

Her eyes are focused on where their hands touch. "Knowing what happened from the souls of those that perished there - it simply makes me appreciate everything more. I can handle that, it is just-"

 

"They will not silence themselves." Wisdom suddenly speaks. The spirit leans down, and its beak gently taps at the top of her head. In that one moment, its eyes flash with recognition, and then it stands upright.

 

Solas extends a hand, "This is Wisdom," he tells Ariwyn, "It has been my friend for a very long time. It offered to help."

 

"Thank you." she says, looking up to the spirit as he does, waiting for some kind of verdict.

 

Wisdom exhales. It is long, and heavy. Then, it finally speaks, and says, "There are many souls in your mind, all older and wiser and stronger than you. They will not listen."

 

Ariwyn looks unsurely between the spirit and him. "So what does that mean?"

 

"There must be some way," Solas protests, ignoring her completely. "Perhaps you could control them, you are very powerful."

 

"Then so could you."

 

"But I am not a _spirit_."

 

She grasps at his arm, suddenly, "You don't mean to suggest that it possesses me?" she sounds alarmed.

 

"It is not possession if it is voluntary." he replies, and gently pries her fingers from where they dig into his skin. "It could quieten them simply for a short while, long enough for you to concentrate on waking."

 

Wisdom looks displeased. "You know how I dislike taking residence in the minds of mortals, even if for such a short period."

 

"Please, my friend, I would not ask if it were not important."

 

"I have not even agreed to this!" Ariwyn protests, and she looks most distressed. There is panic in her eyes - clearly a spirit taking resident in a mind in her world means something terrible.

 

He sighs. "Would you like to remain in the Fade forever?"

 

It takes her a moment. She considers it, looks up at Wisdom, then places fingers to her head. The voices aren't stopping, he thinks.

 

"No, I do not."

 

Her shoulders are slumped, her brows are drawn, her lip quivers just a little. He regrets speaking so harshly to her now; there is more regret in her than there is will in him to be angry. It was foolish but she knows it was wrong. He will not berate her for it.

 

Solas looks up to the spirit. "My friend, please. You would not leave her to her fate, would you?"

 

There is a moment of silence in which the spirit sulks. The ancient spirit of Wisdom then reluctantly steps into the pool, and takes a place at Ariwyn's feet. It looks at Solas pointedly, before focusing back on the mortal.

 

"Remain still." it says. "I will only be in your mind for a moment."

 

Solas rises, steps way, and lets the spirit take control.

 

-

 

There is discontent in her mind. That is the first thing Wisdom feels when its spirit reaches out for hers. She does not resist, though she probably does not know how to. A lot of the discomfort comes from her; she feels invaded, terrified of becoming an abomination. Wisdom pushes, and its influence calms her a little. The others in her mind are not so easy.

 

Its friend had been correct. The memories and remnants of so many souls reside in her, whispering in the back like gossipers in the thousands. Sometimes they grow louder and yell in cacophony, altogether sending a warning but never agreeing on what of. There is sadness in them, so much grief and pain. Wisdom wonders how the mortal's mind has not yet been ripped apart.

 

All it requires from Wisdom is calm. A gentle hush, pushing out a quiet amongst the storm, willing for silence. The voices do not go, they do not leave her mind, but they slowly grow soft; their shouts turning into mere talk, into mumbles, into whispers. Then, they stop. They are not gone - Wisdom can feel their presence - but the mortal feels relief at the quiet.

 

It sees through her eyes; the Fade around her moves more than it should. She is falling, it realises, before being stopped abruptly, caught in the arms of its friend. Ever-chivalrous, it thinks, but being set down gently by him is preferable to head injury against the hard stone, even if it is the Fade. He knows as well as the spirit that injury here will lead to pain in other realities, as well.

 

Wisdom keeps the souls quiet while the mortal drifts to sleep. She is unsure, uncertain where she will wake; the dreaming land of Uthenera or the world where she was born, which now feels like a distant dream, a cold and empty land void of magic. Wisdom too hushes her, quells her worries. It matters not, as long as she wakes. Her wolf will find a solution, for that is his nature. His pride does not let him leave matters unresolved.

 

The mortal becomes incoherent. Signs of sleep, heavy limbs and light breaths. Wisdom begins to withdraw, gently, as to not wake the souls of the dead. Soon, the land in which it finds itself feels strange; too fast the mortal fell into sleep, too slow did Wisdom move. Where it was once easy to enter, it is now too small to leave, closing too fast. The spirit remains calm, as it always does, and thinks quickly for a plan of action. It could wake the souls, wake the mortal, leave before it is too late. But it can see that would not do well for the mortal. It would not do well for its friend.

 

What is the lesser of pain? A mortal, trapped in the world of dreams and haunted by demons for all eternity, or a spirit lived for thousands of lifetimes, trapped in the mind of a Waking mortal?

 

Wisdom wonders. The mortal wakes.


	14. Chapter 14

It is so cold. 

 

Ariwyn's eyes open, confused and alert despite how much her body protests, how much it tells her that she has slept too long. She jumps up; the surface she lays on is freezing, icy cold reaching through her clothes and searing terribly cold burns into the skin what is not covered. In confusion, her hands pat at her body, and they begin to shake when she realises what she is wearing. The woven cloths and tough leathers of the Dalish. She did not go to sleep in these.

 

Breathing slowly, she turns, and surveys where she woke. The chamber is wide, and long, a door at one end and a spirit well at the other. Or, at least, it looks like one; it does not move the same, does not glow as bright. She is on one of many stone slabs about the room, surrounding one in the centre that lies under the twinkling light of dim crystals. Around each slab is a barrier of some sort, but it looks weak; not at all as strong as the kind she is used to now, or the one Solas used to keep her safe in the Fade. 

 

There are bodies under each ward.

 

Cautiously, she slides her legs off the edge, and drops down the small gap between her dangling feet and the ground. It is freezing beneath her toes, as if there is no magic keeping the ground warm. There are too many signs, she thinks, that tells her she did not wake where she wanted. She is not in Uthenera. 

 

She walks to the slab next to hers. It startles her when she recognises the elf beneath the magic; she is one of the Ladies of Mythal's court. The Lady sleeps, soundly, as if she is in the most comfortable of beds. The others in the chamber are the same, and she finds every face of the council she has met, including Lord Nelaros. Out of curiosity, she walks up to the slab in the centre. It shocks her a little to have Mythal's face meet her from beneath the barrier, too fast asleep. None of the elves here look quite right; they are all too pale, or their hair is not as bright as she knows it. The flowers that are framing Mythal's body are all withered, and one immediately crumples to dust in her hand when she touches it. How long has she been here?

 

To the other side of the chamber she goes. There are more Lords and Ladies, and she passes them all, and a subconscious part of her tries to recall names as she recognizes faces. None come to mind until she passes one, and there is a very quick whisper in the back of her mind.  _ Fen'Harel _ .

 

Immediately, she stops. The barrier to her side looks the same as any other in the room, but this one - there is familiarity to it. She rushes to the barrier, settles her hands upon it, and her heart leaps; Solas, dressed in the same fanciful armour he wore the first night she met him, lies under it. He does not move, does not even breathe. His hands are folded neatly over his midsection like a body laid to rest, the fur draped across his chest looks worn and weathered. He looks different here, too. There are many freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks, his skin looks darker, his hair run with silvery streaks. She cannot help but feel worry - his face is slightly gaunt, there are signs of age under his eyes. Just how long has his body slept here? How long has he left it?

 

_ For many years, my friend has travelled your world without a body _ , a voice says. Alarmed, she turns, but no one is here with her.  _ Be calm, mortal. I am still here with you. _

 

"Wisdom?" she asks, but feels a little embarrassed for guessing so hastily. It could be any number of voices in her mind - strange though, that she cannot hear them.

 

_ It is I, yes _ , it agrees,  _ You appear to have brought me back to the Waking world with you. _

 

A sense of panic runs through her. "That can't be possible! No normal person can have a spirit in their mind without becoming an abomination."

 

_ Then you must keep calm. _

 

That does not help. It is true then, that she woke up in the wrong slice of reality she wished to. She should not be here, should not be among the sleeping forms of the People, of Solas. She should be with them - after what she went through with Prudence, she  _ should _ be with them. 

 

_ You tried. _ Wisdom says, softly.  _ You tried in a way that was rash, but brave. But perhaps it is not the will of fate that you be with the People. _

 

"Do not say that." Ariwyn pleads. "I do not wish to hear things like that."

 

_ Then perhaps you should have chosen a spirit other than Wisdom to be imprisoned in your mind. _

 

It is stuck? That would make sense, since spirits cannot enter the Waking world without a host, but - surely Wisdom is not going to be with her forever? 

 

_ It would surely prevent such mistakes in the future. _ Wisdom adds, as if it can hear her thoughts.  _ Prudence would not prove a temptation to me. And yes, I am a part of your mind, I can see everything. _

 

Not everything, not possibly everything.

 

_ Perhaps it would have been wiser to simply accept your  father's wishes and see young Seron, brave hunter, as one who could love you, to put your clan first. You would not be here. You would not have met my friend, you would not feel the way you do. Love is dangerous, you know. My friend has fought and lost many battles with it, you would not be his first mistake. _

 

"You are very rude, do you know that?" she huffs, folding her arms. "You know nothing of what I should have done. Stop poking around in my head."

 

_ I am Wisdom. I know what everyone should have done. _ the spirit tells her simply, but it does as she asks. It goes quiet. 

 

She thinks it is probably Wisdom keeping the others quiet, too. If the spirit were not so grand-standish, perhaps she would not mind it taking up permanent residence to keep the others in her head in silence. Wisdom reminds her of her father, lecturing, telling her what she should have done as opposed to what she should - giving her advice too late. 

 

Turning back to where Solas lies, she lifts a hand, and places it gently against the barrier. He does not stir. Really, she did not expect him to; she is not sure what she expected of such a simple gesture. Still, it comforts her a little. He is real, and does not simply exist in the realm of dreams. Fen'Harel, Solas, Pride. He exists. Her heart clenches unexpectedly. She is glad, is all. 

 

"What should I do, Wisdom?" she asks, quietly. Her hand falls from Solas' barrier. 

 

_ Now you have asked me something I can answer. _ the spirit says, and she almost regrets opening her mouth.  _ I suggest you wait. My friend is most likely searching for you in Uthenera. When you are not where he expects, he will search here. _

 

"How long?"

 

_ I do not understand this world's idea of time. _

 

Of course not. 

 

And so she sits, and waits. She settles down on the ground, back against the slab where Solas lies, and holds her knees tight to her chest - it is still cold. She has a lot of time to think, alone. About anything and everything, really; she thinks of her clan, and misses her father, of all people. She misses being protected, she misses not feeling such uncertainty. She starts to wonder how long these elves have been here. Wisdom does not have a suitable guess. 

 

"How long have you known Pride?" Ariwyn asks, trying to stave off the cold with a small magical fire. The only problem is that she has been training to restrict her magic use for so long that she cannot sustain it properly.

 

_ Here, _ Wisdom says, and the fire flares to life.  _ For a very long time. I have known him since he were merely a babe. _

 

Her eyes go wide, "Truly?" she mumbles, and draws the fire closer to her; her fingers are already much warmer.

 

_ He was quite a charming child. _

 

She blinks, and an image flashes before her eyes. It is like a memory, foggy and hazy, and parts are missing from the background where unimportant details have been forgotten. Before her is a young child, quite tall for how young his face appears, a polite smile on his face, arms behind his back. A  young Solas, so innocent she wants to grasp the child in the memory and protect him from every horror in the world. The baby that grew up to be one of the most feared legends of Elven history, because of war.

 

_ That was the first time I met him. _ Wisdom tells her, and the image fades.  _ A polite young man, asking me all sorts of questions. If I had not seen his body for myself, I would have believed him a spirit of Curiosity. _

 

"Has he always-" she pauses, and looks up to where the Goddess lies silent. Her voice quietens regardless. "Has he always been so dedicated to Mythal?"

 

_ Quite. _ the spirit agrees.  _ From a young age he very quickly understood what one required to attain the best knowledge, the best skills. Mythal was his gateway to that. _

 

Sighing, Ariwyn curses when her breath nearly puts out her fire. "He best hurry."

 

_ Yes, I would rather not be trapped in the mind of a dead mortal. _

 

"Very sympathetic."

 

Hours pass by. She would have expected Solas realise she is not in Uthenera by now, considering how long it has been, and how quickly it would be to check her chambers to see if there is someone present or not. She would not think he would allow himself to become distracted. She is tired, and hungry. 

 

Finally,  _ something _ happens. At the end of the hall, where there sits doors, there is noise beyond it. It makes her start, and jump up from where she sits. Hurriedly, she dashes, and hides behind Mythal's resting place, peering out cautiously. That is not just one person.

 

"Wisdom," she whispers, "Can you see who it is?"

 

_ No, but at a guess, they are the guardians of this place. Sentinels. _ the spirit says, calmly. 

 

"Why are they here?"

 

_ Because they possibly felt a disturbance. _

 

A disturbance created by none other than her, naturally.

 

"Are the sentinels friendly?" 

 

_ They are loyal to Mythal. Ordinarily they would not harm any of the People but you - you are not ordinary, mortal. _

 

That is certainly not reassuring. Her heart pounds in her chest as she flattens down against the slab, presses her back to it, breathes lowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. Perhaps she can sneak past them; wait until they enter and make a break for it as soon as they venture far enough into the chamber. It is wishful thinking, but  _ perhaps _ .

 

She hears the doors swing open, a little too creaky for elven-make; they too, are old. She stills, and footsteps approach, very light ones but unmistakeably there - they are too easy to hear after so long a silence. There are, from what she can tell, four sets of feet. Some voices, too, speaking in an Elven as old as what she is used to from Solas, and the people of Mythal. Orders, coming from the one in charge, "Spread out, search every alcove!" She shrinks further back against the slab.

 

There is obvious risk in talking to Wisdom now. But she cannot even feel the spirit in the recesses of her mind - just the voices again, one louder than the others. It says the same word, over and over and over and over.  _ Abelas. Abelas. Abelas. Abelas.  _

 

Sorrow. 

 

Her body moves of its own accord. She presses up from the ground, and she hears the immediate shuffle as those in the room turn to look at her. Her heart pounds -  _ what is she doing? _ No, what is whoever in control of her body doing? Is its goal to kill her? That is what will happen, no doubt! Sentinels, finding a stranger in the chamber of their great Goddess - what else will they do?

 

"Abelas." she says, aloud, though she does not mean to. The voice terrifies her - it is not her own. 

 

It gives the elves some pause. One of them - the closest - begins to move forward, slowly, taking very cautious and measured steps around her. When he stops, it is before her; in his hands he holds a bow, arrow still slung and ready to fire. He is donned in similar armour of the Lords and Ladies of the Court around them, all golden plates and tight chainmail. His face is hidden beneath a cowl, but she can make out golden skin and the markings of Mythal under his eyes. 

 

"You address me with the arrogance of one who presumes to know me, mortal." the sentinel, who she assumes to be named Abelas, snarls. "Since you seem to possess some knowledge of our tongue, explain yourself. How did you come to be here? Why do you dare trespass upon sacred ground?"

 

"This mortal carries the weight of a thousand lost souls." Ariwyn says - no, it is not her. The same being speaks, it is not Wisdom. It is the same one still chanting sorrow in the back of her mind. "Fate is either too kind or cruel - I did not expect to see you one last time, my heart."

 

Abelas seems startled. Ariwyn certainly relates to his expression, the same shock in his eyes resonates within her. Still, she possess no control over herself, not yet. 

 

"Liren?" he breathes, looking somewhere between meeting eyes with a ghost, and ready to kill it himself. His hands do not know whether to drop his bow or not. 

 

"I am sorry, my heart." she says, and starts to get some feeling back in her fingertips. "I am so selfish, stealing the mortal like this. Please do not harm her - I must let her go now."

 

Any shock left in him is wiped clean, replaced with a stubbornness. "Why must you leave? Where are you going?"

 

"To sleep."

 

Ariwyn stumbles, the sudden control of her body coming back too fast for her to keep balance. There is a clatter as Abelas' bow falls to the floor, and his arms come to catch her, instead. Swiftly she steadies herself, and meets his gaze; he does not look at her like an intruder, anymore. It is a little scary - there is a wonderment in his eyes, a longing she has seen in the face of her father when the name of her mother was spoken. Whoever this soul is, this Liren; he has lost her, hasn't he?

 

"I-" she takes in a shaky breath as she stands once more. "I am not her. I am sorry."

 

Her voice sounds like hers, again.

 

Suspicion is raised once more. Abelas plucks his bow from the ground with ease, and does not replace the arrow in his quiver; it stays, notched.

 

"Who are you?" he asks, with narrowed eyes.

 

"She is mine."

 

Relief floods through her. He certainly took his time to find her, but finally, Solas' hand settles on her shoulder. She had barely heard him approach, his footsteps so light they were relative to that of the sentinels. Quickly, she spares a glance at him, not willing to leave her eyes to wander from Abelas for too long; he is looking to the sentinel, face completely unmoving and stoic. 

 

"Lord Pride." Abelas greets, simply. "Your mortals are not supposed to wake here again."

 

"No, but this is a special case." he is very short, and his voice sounds sharp.

 

"As special as to leave her in the chamber of Mythal?" the sentinel's arrow twitches a little. "It is blasphemy to allow a mortal here."

 

Solas huffs. "She was in danger, Sorrow. I did what I had to in what little time I had. Do not frighten so."

 

Abelas positively bristles. His eyes narrow under angry brows. "Send your mortal back to sleep. We do not have time for your games, Dread Wolf."

 

To this Solas then takes his turn to be insulted. She is unsure why he would be insulted simply by his own title, but he looks furious for a moment, then masks it once more in passiveness. "There are complications that I will not bother to entail at the moment; in short, she cannot."

 

"Of course not. Perhaps we shall have to sing her a lullaby." he snaps, spitefully.

 

Ariwyn lifts her hand, and settles it over Solas'. Softly, she says, "Wisdom suggests we stop arguing, now."

 

It did not. Solas and Abelas do not know that.

 

Solas' mouth, open and ready to lash the next barrage back to the sentinel, snaps shut. Perhaps she should remember to pretend to be influenced by Wisdom in the future, if it makes him react so very quickly. Abelas, on the other hand, remains unaffected.

 

"If it will not sleep," he growls, and his hand grasps very tightly at his bow, "Then it will leave. The shadows do not belong in sacred ground such as this - it must leave the temple."

 

"Where I go, she goes." Solas says simply, lifting his shoulders in a slight shrug. 

 

"Then you will leave to."

 

"You dare?"

 

The sentinel angrily gestures to where Ariwyn had woken, the empty stone slab. "You dare bring a mortal in this hallowed hall? You set her to rest among the pride of Mythal's people?"

 

Solas does not say anything in response. It worries her for a moment, that he stays so silent with such tight a jaw, that twitches a little. Then, he heaves a breath.

 

"We will go."   
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it has been a while since I updated this... I am not joking, Corypheus hunted me down in my dream last night, and somehow that struck me with inspiration. Being chased by an ancient Tevinter Magister inspires me, apparently. That's not scary at all.

There is a lot of heavy rain. It clatters down on the shingles of the nearby roofs, which, if not for the sorry state of disrepair they already find themselves in, look to be dropping under the weight of the weather. The little village is so eerily quiet.

 

" _We should tread with caution, here_." says Solas, though his words echo in her mind. " _The souls we find here are likely not wont to be welcoming, if here at all_."

 

He walks along beside her, on all fours as opposed to two. He is the image of a loyal hound, though not the common Fereldan type; with pointed ears, a long tail and thick fur, he is more fittingly wolfish than a Mabari. It would make them less conspicuous, he had said, if she looked to be a simple traveller with her loyal companion. That would still not help her avoid hatred if she were to run into shemlen, but she supposed he was mostly correct.

 

"I don't think there's anyone here." she murmurs, and she knows he can hear her despite the rain. "The Blight spread far, after all."

 

Solas lets out a disquieted huff. " _I have heard of this Blight - a plague of sorts?_ "

 

"A plague of the world." she agrees. "My clan were not in Ferelden then. I had imagined but I had never thought it would be so..." she looks out at the devastation around them; after leaving the Wilds, they had begun crossing fields greyed with old blood and a sickly ooze, and found ruin after ruin of homes and farms.

 

" _It is very dark magic indeed_."

 

"Tainted magic." Ariwyn corrects, as she gazes into an open doorway, torn open from the outside. "You know, the shemlen think they wrought this upon the world, by trying to enter the homes of their own gods?"

 

" _A common tale of hubris. Morality transcends race_."

 

Another voice hums in the back of her mind. " _We should not linger here_."

 

It is Wisdom. Ariwyn relays the spirit's words to him - he cannot hear it, despite too residing partly in her mind. It is beginning to feel a little unnerving with so many voices, whilst knowing there are so many more still being repressed by Wisdom.

 

It is right; the place around them reeks of death, fear oozing out from beneath the loose shingles and out of still-open doorways. It makes her think of Despair - she wonders, if still allowed to roam the Waking world, just how many of those demons would linger here. She breathes in, and feels her lungs choke around the poisoned air - she only hopes she does not find any lingering trace of Darkspawn. From what she knows, just simply being around them is dangerous. She is already tainted, and the disease is not even of this world.

 

"Solas," she asks, and without meaning to, slips into a common tongue. The change does not even feel unnatural. "Do you think we can find a cure for this?"

 

" _Your Blight?_ " he asks. His Elven almost sounds like a correction: she realises her mistake, and sighs.

 

"No, not this Blight," she gestures to the world around them, to the withered plants and abandoned homes once loved. Her hands press to her chest. "What is wrong with me." she says, quietly.

 

His paws tread carefully over the remnants of a stone wall worn down that separates them, and brushes his snout underneath her lowered palm.

 

" _It will be fine, lethallen. I will fix this_."

 

That is a soothing sentiment, if it had not been her fault in making this a problem. It should be hers to fix.

 

" _You are cold_." he says, matter-of-factly. It is true, but she has tried to avoid admitting it. She is cold, wet, hungry - though she was raised with these feelings always nearby, she now misses Uthenera. She was spoilt there, and grew so accustomed to comfort that it now feels awful to be parted with it.

 

Ariwyn nods, and wraps her arms around herself. "The rain doesn't help."

 

He pushes gently past her, and trots through the mud towards what looks to be someone's home, once upon a time. The door barely hangs to its hinges, and the shutters over the closest window have been barred shut with hastily nailed on planks of rotted wood. With his snout, he pushes aside the door, and it swings open very slowly, dragging out a long whine before thumping against the wall beside it. She waits, under the relative shelter of the overhanging roof as he steps in, sniffing. When he disappears inside, she tries not to worry.

 

" _It is safe._ " he tells her, and gratefully, she follows him in.

 

The inside of the house has obviously been ransacked, once probably by residents fleeing the Darkspawn, then by the creatures themselves, and then by salvagers looking to find good loot. The stone floor is still relatively clean, cleaner than the mood paths outside, anyhow - her bare toes are freezing against it, however. There are doorways against the far wall leading into further parts of the house, but she is uninterested in searching them; her eyes hone in on the fireplace between them.]

 

Hurriedly, she heads towards it, and with a gentle spark, helped by Wisdom, the fire comes to life. What kindle is in the hearth is mostly rotten, and probably won't burn for long, but the warmth makes her sigh in relief. She sinks down to the ground, learning her back against a table turned on its side, and her eyelids droop almost immediately. She jumps back alert when the door slams against the frame.

 

"I will make sure it's safe." she hears Solas say, but he speaks aloud, not in her mind. Lazily, she rolls her head back, and watches him walk past on two feet. He looks like he's been waltzing around in the sun, never mind the pouring rain. Magic protects what it wants, she thinks grumpily.

 

Wisdom tuts in the back of her mind. " _He is not truly here, mortal. His body yet sleeps. What you see-_ "

 

"Is merely a projection, yes." Ariwyn sighs. "You've told me. He is not here, I am truly alone, and I have enslaved you in a prison worse than the darkest reaches of the Fade. Am I right?"

 

The spirit says nothing, but she knows how it feels. She feels it, and it feels her. There is some frustration built up in the spirit, in being locked in the mind of her, but she feels just the same. Wisdom may be as wise as its name suggests, but that does not mean that it is kind. It says things how they are, and it is not always the nicest in how it does. The spirit is like Solas, if one were to rip the kindness and patience from him.

 

"I am grateful for your help." she tells the spirit, hugging her knees to her chest. "But you do not need to be cruel."

 

" _I am not cruel. I am Wisdom. I am what I am._ "

 

She expected a response so convoluted. Letting out a breath, she lets her eyes close for a moment. Feeling comes back to her fingertips and toes as the fire begins to warm through her.

 

" _Your clothes are soaked, mortal._ " Wisdom says, quietly. " _You should not be in them._ "

 

Ariwyn snorts. But the spirit is serious, and does not change their mind. It is right, of course; her wet clothes will do nothing to help warm her. "But-" her voice lowers to barely a whisper, "Pride... he's here too."

 

" _He has seen the body of a woman before, I assure you._ "

 

"That's not what I-" she heaves a heavy sigh, one of frustration. "Stupid spirit."

 

Grumbling softly, she sits up on her knees, and wrestles with the straps of her clothes; she became so accustomed to the easy fittings of clothing of ancient elven finery that she has almost forgotten how difficult her old clothes are. They were built to be sturdy, and it makes it hard to undo the tight closings of rusted buckles and stiff leather. Eventually, she wriggles free of most of her garments, and leaves them flat near the fire to hopefully dry. She stays in her light tunic, to try to maintain at least _some_ dignity if Solas returns.

 

" _That is wet too, mortal._ "

 

"It stays." she snaps.

 

There is some shuffling from one of the doorways behind the fireplace, and eventually, Solas reappears. He hauls something behind him, some kind of cabinet, she thinks. Eventually, it stops scraping across the floor when he releases it, blocking the doorway entirely. Both ways must loop around each other, for he's already done it for the other one.

 

"It should be relatively safe, now." Solas says, approaching the light of the fire before very quickly coming to a halt a few feet from her. He almost immediately averts his eyes, and across his cheeks, his skin blushes a light pink.

 

"It was Wisdom's idea," she murmurs, and feels her own face grow very hot, much warmer than the fire made it. "My clothes were wet, so..."

 

"It was right to suggest it, I merely..." he coughs, clearing his throat. Then, he looks back at her, seemingly composed again. "Are you not cold?"

 

She gestures to the fire. "It makes me warm enough."

 

He remains standing before her, for a time. She watches his gaze, seemingly curious, dip a bit lower than her own eyes, then lower; taking their time travelling down her neck, to where her collarbone lies exposed between the untied V of her tunic. The fabric is still damp, and clings to her skin. She is suddenly much more conscious of her own body, but Solas does not seem put off by anything he sees - his expression reads completely neutral by the time he meets her gaze again.

 

She is still blushing when he finally moves, and goes around the table behind her to sit at her side. No man she has ever met had dared be so confident - to look at her so unashamedly, to let his gaze roam over her like she was fine art. Her heart pounds; she feels so flustered, but so flattered.

 

" _You forget,_ " Wisdom's voice seems very quiet in the relative silence of the room. " _Things are different among the People. It is senseless to waste time longing for someone from afar._ "

 

There is no longing, she thinks. Solas does not see her that way, surely. Bashfully, she glances at him sideways, and sees he is staring silently into the fire, the warm oranges and reds reflecting in his almost colourless irises. When he notices she's looking, his gaze turns back to her, yet his expression remains just as blank - soft, but nondescript.

 

" _Surely not indeed._ " the spirit says. " _It would do my friend no favours to chase one as yourself._ "

 

She scowls, and turns to glare at the fire. Solas seems taken aback, and chuckles. She wishes she could tell him that it wasn't him, but then he would ask what Wisdom was saying to make her angry. Instead, she curls up further on herself, and buries her chin behind her knees.

 

" _I am not cruel. I am Wisdom._ " it prefaces, before tormenting her further, " _You are a mortal, one of the Lost People. He is a General, a man of great power, older than you can even imagine with enough power to level your greatest fears. Such a pairing would only result in great pain. There would be talk, it would damage him. You do not want him to suffer, do you?_ "

 

It is not wrong - the only false thing it said was when it stated it does not speak with cruelty. Despite its rationality, its words still sting. Her brows draw close as she shrinks further in on herself, trying to ignore the way he is looking at her. She can feel his gaze, confused, concerned; he does not understand. Now she is unsure whether she is thinking, or if Wisdom is for her.

 

Gently, a hand settles on her arm. She tries to ignore it, to keep her back to him, but he tugs, and she falls apart. Her gaze, guilty and conflicted, settles on him; the confusion is shared, but he offers her a smile.

 

"Whatever is the matter?" he asks, gently, "Are you still cold?"

 

She shakes her head. Her hand comes up to pry his fingers from around her arm, and both go back to hugging around herself. Solas appears even more confused.

 

"I am unsure what I have done, but I do not believe whatever it was means I deserve to be ignored." he huffs, and his gaze burns into the side of her head. "Was it for yelling at you? For calling you a fool?"

 

Again, her head shakes.

 

" _Be strong, mortal._ " is all Wisdom says. It sounds like it's supporting her, offering encouragement - it is doing the very opposite. Her heart clenches tightly. She is scared to say how she feels, truly; compared to him, she is young, she has never felt anything towards anyone. How would she know how she feels? In the end, it does not matter. Wisdom is right.

 

"Ariwyn."

 

She swears her heart misses a beat. Or two. He has never said her name before, she has never heard it said in his soft tones. Her face feels hot as she looks to him, and when she sees a gentle smile on his lips she feels even more twisted up inside.

 

He is Fen'Harel, she thinks. He is the Dread Wolf. He is a curse, an infamous legend. She thinks these thoughts will help change her mind, to follow Wisdom's advice. However, all it does is make her confused; he was supposed to be a _myth_. He shouldn't be real - she should not feel anything for him. Yet...

 

"I'm sorry." she murmurs, and hides her face in her hands. "I... I feel..."

 

He says nothing, waits for her to speak, very patiently. A virtue of an immortal, patience.

 

Quickly, she shakes her head. Wisdom's words echo in her mind. She stays quiet. After a moment, he frowns.

 

"What were you going to say?" Solas asks. His hand, open and welcoming, is lifted out before her. Against her better judgement, her hand reaches up with little hesitation, and takes it. Gently, he tugs, and she's turned to face him.

 

Sighing, her throat knots up. If she tells him the truth, she would betray Wisdom - but how is it betrayal if it was warding her away from what she thinks she wants? She can almost hear the spirit pick up on her uncertainty. Wisdom is clever, and knows what should be done, but it is wrong; it is cruel, no matter how it paints itself.

 

"How old are you?" Ariwyn murmurs, and the question takes him aback. He was not expecting it, the surprise is written all over his face, brows pulled together in the flickering light of the fire.

 

He takes a moment to respond. "I am not sure." he answers, and sounds truthful. "I have been doing the same thing for so long, I don't know how long has passed. It has been centuries since the Elvhenan disappeared beyond the Veil, and I have lived for centuries even before then. In short," he breathes out, "I am very old."

 

Old and wise enough to know wrong from right, to know logical from foolish. In her clan, she used to think she was capable, to think she could lead. Now, knowing so much about the way her people _should_ live, she feels like a child. Perhaps she should not speak, now. Perhaps Wisdom was right.

 

Solas' hand moves. She watches it, rise from his lap, and inch towards her. His fingers are warm when they tap at her chin, and turn her gaze upwards to him.

 

"You look like you wish to say something, lethallen." he says, and his voice is soft.

 

She opens her mouth, and her heart twists painfully. Her lips snap shut, and she casts her gaze elsewhere, just for him to tap her head back up to face him. Wisdom hovers at the back of her mind, but she cannot help herself, not when he is so determined to find out what she has to say.

 

Sighing, she mumbles. "I am young, too young to even class as an adult in your world." she plays with her hands, and watches as Solas' relaxes, and replaces itself back in his lap when she is finally speaking. "I was seen as one of the wisest and mature people of my clan, but around the People, I feel... I don't feel adequate."

 

"And that is alright. You will adjust, as I have said you will."

 

"No, what I mean is-" taking a pause, she gathers her thoughts. "I mean I do not feel as though I have the capacity to make the right decisions. I fear if I choose what I want, I will harm another."

 

Solas smiles at her, and says, "Well is it not suitable that you now have Wisdom with you? An ancient spirit, to guide your decisions to be the right ones?"

 

Her heart sinks, and she forces a smile, after a moment. "I suppose that is true, yes."

 

He looks as if he expects her to say more. When she does not speak, his smile falters.

 

"Did I say something wrong?"

 

Again, she shakes her head, almost as a reflex. "No, you're right. You're absolutely right."

 

Almost immediately, he guesses, "Wisdom said something to you." and it is correct. She momentarily curses his age, his own wisdom - he is too quick. "What did it say to upset you?"

 

She can almost hear the spirit convincing her not to say, to listen to its advice. "It told me what I should do." she answers, and Wisdom relaxes a little. It is only trying to protect its friend, she thinks. _From me_.

 

He rubs at his eyes with a hand, heaving a sigh. "I am beginning to regret asking it for help." he says, "What did it say?"

 

" _Do not hurt him._ " Wisdom hisses quietly, almost like it is pleading. The desperation in its voice almost makes her remain quiet, but she has enough faith in herself. She will not, she promises it. It does not seem satisfied.

 

"It told me..." she breathes, "I am confused. I said before that I am young, and I'm afraid I will make wrong choices. I said that because I fear that I don't know if I can trust how I feel, against how I think I feel."

 

Solas appears a little confused, but listens regardless.

 

"I do not know your world, at least from personal experience." hesitantly, her hand lifts, and this time, she is the one to touch him. She takes ahold of his hand, and he does not brush her off. "I'm scared to say what I think, because I do not know if I am right."

 

"Then how will you know if you're wrong?"

 

She fights with herself, and with Wisdom. She is unsure, and inexperienced - she should listen to Wisdom, she should do as it advises. Why would a spirit so clever tell her to do something otherwise?

 

Closing her eyes, she murmurs. "I have feelings for you."

 

He is not surprised, or angered. Instead, he seems to find it a little amusing, and chuckles. "Feelings can be many things. If it is anger, I understand; I have done some terrible things to you-"

 

"No, Pride." she squeezes his hand. "I said I was scared because I have never had these feelings for anyone else. You have lived longer than me, felt things like this and more in the past. I don't want to assume anything, or be swayed by what I think I feel. I'm confused, Pride. Wisdom is telling me that it is better for us both if I do not speak, but I can't keep it to myself."

 

"So that is what was bothering you." Solas clicks his tongue in annoyance. "The advice of an ancient spirit of Wisdom is not usually to be ignored."

 

Abruptly, she releases his hand. He is right; of course he is right. Of course, Wisdom was right. She ignored the guidance of a being wiser than anyone she knows, and now she feels a fool. Her face is hot, and her stomach twists; she is embarrassed and upset, more than anything. She wishes she didn't have to feel. It would remove complications like this, like this whole mess she got herself into with Prudence.

 

"It has been known for Wisdom to be wrong, however."

 

Ariwyn's eyes flick up, and she slowly peers up at him. He is watching the fire, again. He does not look at her when he speaks.

 

"You said you are confused, so I will not push you further to talk about it." Solas says, "But know that Wisdom's advice can only do so much good. It means well, but can cause suffering, like any spirit of good nature."

 

She too looks back at the fire, and Wisdom has gone notably quiet. She supposes most spirits do not much enjoy having their weaknesses announced. Sighing, she ducks her head, and feels lethargic. Wondering if she even can sleep, she lowers herself to the ground beside the fire, curling up in on herself. Solas watches her, but makes no move to join her on the ground. Instead, as her eyes close, she feels his hand on her head, fingers running between strands of her hair. It is soothing, and soon she falls into dreamless sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

It is strange, sleeping without dreaming. She has grown so accustomed to the Fade that it is disorientating to go to sleep, and wake what feels like mere moments later. When she does, the fire has long since gone out; there is some sunlight breaking through the gaps between the boards covering the window, and Solas is gone. Confused, she quickly sits up, and rubs at her eyes. One quick sweep around the room shows he's not here. Quickly, she dresses. Her clothes are still slightly damp on the side that was flush with the floor, but that isn't a concern at the moment.

 

Hurriedly, she scrambles up and towards the door, which is hanging half open from its hinges. Perhaps he just went for a walk - he likes to do that, at least when they're in Uthenera.

 

The road outside is still mushy from the rain, she can feel it between her toes. The sun is warm now, though; at least there is that. Stepping out into what was once probably a busy street, she can't see anything other than decaying fields and some collapsing houses. Nervously, she takes off in the direction that her instincts point, her heart heavy.

 

" _My friend is not a fool._ " Wisdom sounds completely calm - though the spirit never usually behaves any differently against its nature. " _He will be here, somewhere._ " it says.

 

"Yes, but where?" her feet begin to pull in the ground, sinking into the mud, but she continues. Raising her voice, she shouts, "Pride!"

 

In response, she expects silence. Instead, there is a resounding howl. To her relief, he does not sound pained, though the sound is as haunting as when the clan would be stalked by a pack of wolves hungry for a meal. It scared her when she was younger, and it still alarms her, all for a completely different reason.

 

She follows the sound, rounding a corner as it comes to an end. She sees him, standing on all fours in the middle of the road, hackles raised, growling lowly. Initially, fear kicks in and she almost runs away - but he is not facing her. Instead, he is protecting her. From the shemlen in front of him.

 

"Is he yours?" the shemlen calls, in common tongue. She seems awfully calm for one facing down an ancient elf - though she does not know it. "Please, call him off; I mean no harm."

 

The stranger looks like a traveller. She wears odd garb, made of dark leathers and a mantle of dirtied fur, reminiscent of Solas. On her back she has a weapon - if she didn't know how the shemlen treated their mages, she would immediately name it a staff, but she can't be certain. A mage, wandering unsupervised? Ariwyn cannot see her face, as she is bundled up under a hood that both protects from the rain, and obscures her from sight.

 

"Pride," Ariwyn calls calmly, masking her relief at the sight of him. She approaches, and settles a hand against his head, and his growling eventually subsides.

 

The traveller lowers her hands from where they are raised, peacefully. Slowly and cautiously, she straightens, and she is tall, almost like an ancient elf.

 

Ariwyn remains cautious, and Solas seems ready to pounce. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

 

"I could ask the same as you." she takes a hand - covered in a silver gauntlet, fingers sharpened into claws - and lowers her hood, to reveal a shaggy mess of dark hair, that almost falls completely over her face. The stark blue in her eyes shines between the strands. "Lothering's been abandoned for years, and for good reason. It's not safe here, you know?"

 

"Then why are you here?"

 

The traveller laughs, sounding genuine. "Touché." she says. "I'm Marian Hawke - Lothering was my home, before the Blight. I had hoped the years since would make it safe enough to come back. Only to recover what I can from my family's house."

 

Ariwyn's fingers curl into Solas' fur, uncertain. She has conversed with very few shemlen, but this Hawke doesn't seem to have cause to lie. Her father told her that is all shemlen do and yet - this stranger has been friendlier than any of her "own" kind in Uthenera.

 

"And you?" Hawke offers, gesturing at her. "You're travelling rather light. You look Dalish, where's your clan?"

 

She swallows, "They're a ways back, I offered to scout ahead."

 

"Huh. Never seen a Dalish with a wolf, usually always just halla, isn't it?" she seems more relaxed now, and comes a little closer. Ariwyn keeps a hand on Solas as his growl begins anew. "Ir abelas, wolf friend. I did not mean to startle you."

 

"You speak elven?" she tries not to show how surprised she is, but struggles to mask it. Solas does not seem impressed, or pleased by his title.

 

Hawke smiles. "That's one of the few things I know, I'm afraid. One of my closest friends is Dalish." she shrugs, "It probably doesn't sound genuine coming from a human, I know, but I find your culture fascinating."

 

It's hard to contain her surprise - pleasant surprise, but surprise nonetheless. Of course, this human could simply be lying to trick her, but that was some pretty good pronunciation. Again, Hawke does not seem to have any reason to lie.

 

" _Please be wary around this one_." Solas says, and his head turns to watch her as she walks past, scowling a little as her boot sticks in the mud.

 

Gently, she runs a hand through his fur, as to reassure him. Still, she watches Hawke trudge through the mud, back from where Ariwyn came from. Curiously, she follows. She has nothing better to do.

 

"You still didn't answer my question, not really." Hawke speaks up, as Ariwyn walls into step just behind her. "No clan would risk bringing their young and elderly through an area infected with the Blight. Why are you really here?"

 

Sighing, Ariwyn answers, mostly honestly. "I'm wandering, lost. Trying to solve a problem."

 

She does not seem bothered by her vague response. "You sound like my friend." she says instead. "The Dalish one; she left her clan because she had a problem they didn't want to help her fix."

 

"That doesn't sound like a true Dalish clan."

 

"Well, there was blood magic and an Eluvian involved, so-"

 

"An Eluvian?" she asks, excitedly. Could this friend of Hawke's be the same as the one she had heard of, from rumours of another clan in possession of one?

 

" _They are not special, do not allow her to entice you_." Solas says quickly, " _We have many in Uthenera I will show you_."

 

Hawke, oblivious to the conversation in her head, continues. "Yes, it wasn't working though. She tried all sorts to get it working." then, she looks to Ariwyn, "But I assume your problem isn't an Eluvian?"

 

"As complicated as one." she admits.

 

The shem lifts her hand, and a small flame burns between her fingers, before she quickly extinguishes it. "I may not be the best of mages, but I know a lot of varied magic. Is there any way I can help?"

 

" _That was a very... Gentle display of power._ " Solas comments, and she almost laughs. She agrees, magic in this realm of reality seems so simple, now.

 

"I think this needs a very specific solution. It's just a matter of determining what." Ariwyn mumbles, unsure of her words as they leave her mouth. _And even understanding the problem itself_ , she thinks.

 

"Ah," Hawke lets her hand fall back to her side. "A shame. Well, if I can help, you can ask."

 

Ariwyn falters a little, as Hawke pushes aside a rotting gate, that creaks loudly on its hinges. She looks like the action is so familiar that this must be her home; her eyes scan the landscape, and there is such a melancholic feeling to her nostalgia. Beyond the field, decimated and oozing with a sickly blackness, lies a little house, barely holding together. A portion of the roof had already caved in, and the chimney on the side of the building lies half collapsed on the soiled ground beside it.

 

"Home sweet home." Hawke says, but there is a forced light-heartedness to her lilted voice. "Come with me, if you'd like. We'll see if there's anything left behind that might help to keep you warm."

 

She did not notice until Hawke says that that she's freezing. Her leathers feel thin in the almost-marshy environment. Nodding, she follows Hawke through the gate, despite Solas' quiet complaints; he follows her without hesitation, however. He stays so close to her that he is almost always brushed up against her legs, and it helps to keep her a little warmer.

 

Hawke goes quiet as they approach the old farmhouse. Her gauntlet, so sharp the fingers cut through the wood of the door, push it open, slowly. It opens with very little struggle, and collapses against the wall behind it. Ariwyn feels like she should speak, to offer some sort of comfort, but the cold look on Hawke's face looks like it's struggling to stay intact. It is silent as they enter the house, and find a small dining table cracked in two, plates shattered between it, chairs scattered about the room. The family must have just been sat down to eat when the Darkspawn struck. She stays in the doorway as Hawke, her boots too loud against the abandoned floor, steps around the destruction.

 

Ariwyn feels like she is intruding, when Hawke stops to stare, gaze blank, at the wreckage. Quietly, she removes herself from the house, and goes to stand outside. Hawke may be adept at hiding her emotions, but it is hard - it was not even her life that was torn apart by this Blight, but watching Hawke try and fail to pretend it does not hurt... It hurts _her_. She stands at the border of the field, which looks like soot, and wraps her arms around herself. So much loss, so much devastation. And for what?

 

"It's so terrible." she murmurs. From here, she can see the ruins of the town Hawke called Lothering. It looks even more haunting than long abandoned Elven ruins. "If what the shem believe is true, and this is caused by the hubris of just a few... How is this a fair punishment?"

 

" _Not much is fair, no matter what the cause is_." Solas' snout brushes up against her palm, and he settles against her leg. " _I have seen many wars, witnessed much death, but this- it is tragic. Brutal. Pestilence is not something one can fight. Innocents stand no chance._ "

 

For a moment, as she stares out across the fields, the voices hum. At the back of her mind, their voices reach out to her like tendrils creeping, closer, closer. They feel the pain, they feel the sorrow. It only makes it worse. After a second, Wisdom pushes them back.

 

Hawke is in the house for a long time. When she eventually emerges, it is midday, the sun high in the sky. She does not bring much with her - the pack slung from one shoulder does not look much fuller than it was before she entered. However, in her arms, she carries some fabrics.

 

"I..." she hesitates, before extending them. "These were my sisters. They're not much - clearly since they weren't taken by looters - but at least they might do something to keep you warm."

 

There is so much evident pain in her when she mentions her sister. Politely, Ariwyn rises, and takes the bundle of clothes from her arms. She has never worn shem clothes before.

 

"Thank you, Hawke." she offers a smile, and Hawke forces one in response. She takes a few steps past her, settling one gloved and one gauntleted hand on her hips, and looks out at the ruins. Ariwyn silently enters the house to change.

 

Solas sits in the doorway whilst she does. She is ever so conscious that he is still _Solas_ , and not just an animal, and glances at him every so often to ensure he is facing Hawke. Abandoning her Dalish attire is not something she does lightly, but the clothes Hawke had given are comfortable, dry, and despite their faint smell of rot, they're in good condition. She tries to salvage what she can of her old clothes, like the leather bracers, belt, some of the fur. The rest is not worth trying to save. She uses what is left of the fabric to wipe off her muddied feet, before she pulls on the leather boots Hawke had found. It is an unusual feeling, but it is better than picking mud out from under her toenails for months.

 

When she rejoins Hawke, she looks a little less downtrodden. She takes a look at her, and nods.

 

"They fit. Good." Hawke says contentedly. "Bethany was always the smallest out of the three of us. Mother always wondered how she could have two tall children and one dwarf." with that, she laughs, nostalgically.

 

"I'm sorry," she softly murmurs, "About your sister."

 

Hawke's eyes narrow, not at her, but at the sun which glints off the few puddles that had not yet soaked into the mud. "We escaped Lothering. Barely anyone was that lucky - myself, Bethany, Carver - my brother, and Mother." she breathes in. "Beth was killed... The Darkspawn barely gave her a chance."

 

Her voice - it grows angrier. There is some sorrow but it seems like she accepted her loss a long time ago.

 

"I met one of those Tevinter Magisters, you know." Hawke folds her arms, huffing a breath that lifts some hair. "His name was Corypheus. He claimed he'd seen the Golden City, invaded the Maker's home. He was as Darkspawn as you could get, yet had the audacity to keep yapping like you and me." her grip around her arms tighten. "I killed him."

 

"That must've been some fight." Ariwyn struggles to contain her awe. "But I thought the Magisters that were cast down become Archdemons. Are you a Grey Warden?"

 

Quickly, Hawke shakes her head. "My brother is - my fault, again." there's a sigh. "Either way, Corypheus couldn't have been an Archdemon. It was a tough fight, but he went down like any other hit with enough fireballs."

 

" _These Archdemons - they cause this Blight?"_ Solas queries, and his tail swishes curiously.

 

"They lead the Darkspawn Horde, from what I know. I always thought they were the Magisters themselves, but maybe not." Ariwyn shrugs. Hawke raises a quizzical brow.

 

"Did you just talk to your dog?" she asks, bemused.

 

"Maybe."

 

She barks a laugh, "It's not the strangest thing I've ever seen."

 

Completely ignoring Hawke's confusion, Solas continues, clearly on a train of thought she is not following. " _How many? Of these Blights, how many have there been?_ "

 

"Five, I think. There have been five Blights, haven't there Hawke?"

 

Hawke nods.

 

" _Perhaps not. I wonder..._ "

 

Solas goes quiet, and she is left to try to piece together a picture he is clearly many pieces ahead of her with. She sets a hand on his head, his fur soft and reassuring. With a sigh, Hawke unfolds her arms.

 

"What will you do now?" she asks, looking at Ariwyn with some concern. "Your clan isn't really nearby, is it?"

 

She looks to Solas. He is her clan, now; Clan Lavellan have probably long since given up on her, and she trusts Deshanna not to tell her secret. Still, she shakes her head.

 

"I don't really know what we'll do." she sighs, admittedly. "We have no real idea of what we should do. All we have is a problem and no solutions."

 

Solas seems completely oblivious to their conversation. She can almost see cogs whirring in his head. " _This damage, it is fresh. There are still mortals alive who have seen this destruction, perhaps lain eyes on this Archdemon?_ "

 

Confused, she nods, "I think so. Hawke, you'll know better than me - the Grey Warden, who defeated the Archdemon. They survived the battle, didn't they?"

 

Hawke snorts. "Yeah, and now she sits on the throne of Ferelden."

 

She can hear Solas hum.

 

" _I have an idea, a theory. But I can only confirm it if I can see - if I know what it is these Hordes are led by._ "

 

Her heart twists, in an odd way. She is... proud? She is, that he is considering threats and dangers to her world, despite his own being one of the largest of them all. Perhaps he really does wish for a peaceful end to the plan of the Evanuris. Perhaps he does wish to see her world survive.

 

"Why so interested in the Blight, little doggy?" Hawke coos, and goes to scratch behind Solas' ear. His quick snapping jaws ward her hand away. "Okay, I have to know - is he actually speaking to you, or are you just speaking to him to make yourself look less insane?"

 

Honestly, she answers, "He speaks to me."

 

"Sorry, then. Didn't realise you were sentient. Either way, what's going on in his head?"

 

" _This Queen - may we see her?_ "

 

Ariwyn laughs, and causes both of them to regard her with quizzical expressions. Quickly, she covers her mouth, and waves a hand at Solas, as if he hadn't just made her genuinely bark with laughter.

 

"I don't think that's possible. Elf, remember?" she pokes at the tips of her ears, and Solas' head cocks to the side. "No shem Queen would ever willingly let me speak to her."

 

"Not if she knows if it's an elf she's having an audience with." Hawke shrugs, and gives her a cheeky smile, "She's not just a Queen - she's the Warden Commander of Ferelden. Through my brother I have a friend, Stroud. He's pretty high up in the Wardens, high enough to communicate with the Queen frequently. Aaaaand," she grins further, "It'll be just your luck that she's returned to Denerim for a brief spell before she heads out again."

 

Aghast, she looks between Solas, and Hawke. "I cannot seriously meet the Queen of Ferelden!" she cries, incredulous. "Why would we even bother? We can't waste the time of someone so important based on a theory!"

 

"What theory?"

 

" _If she will trust us, I will take her to a place where we can see her memories of this Archdemon. We can see if my theory holds true._ "

 

Huffing, she agrees with Hawke. "What theory?" she too demands of the wolf.

 

Solas rises, and stomps around a little in the mud before them, making circles. " _These Archdemons sound too much like a certain collective of dark beings that were trapped on this side of the Veil._ "

 

Her heart stutters. Inside, she hears the voices again, all at once, too quick to catch much other than screams of, " _Kill_ ," " _Revenge_ ," " _Die_!" Dizzy, she stumbles, and Hawke catches her quickly, before Solas can even move. After a moment, the voices subsides, and she feels Wisdom chase the souls around, drive them back down into her subconscious. Her vision clears, and she sees both the face of the shem mage, and of the wolf Solas looking at her with concern.

 

"The voices again," she murmurs to Solas, who whines softly.

 

" _We must get rid of them. It is too much, you cannot bear their pain._ "

 

Hawke helps her stand again. "Voices?" she breathes, and cackles a small laugh. "You really are a mysterious one, aren't you?"

 

Giving her a small smile, Ariwyn gently runs a hand through Solas' fur. It is so reassuring. "Do you really think the Archdemons are the Forgotten Ones?" she asks him.

 

" _The only part that does not add up is the amount of them - we must research these Blights, see if there are worse than others. If there are ones even more terrible than this, then I would suspect one of the three - Anaris, Geldauran or Daern'thal. If they are out here..._ "

 

It occurs to her, until now, she had never heard their names spoken. She did not even know them - the maligned division of the Pantheon were almost never discussed in Dalish culture. The Forgotten Ones were a legend she had only heard through Keeper Deshanna's teachings.

 

"Then what?"

 

Solas huffs a breath of hot air. " _Then we will kill them, before they rise._ "

 


	17. Chapter 17

"You're in luck," Hawke says, over her shoulder. "I was heading north to Denerim anyway. The goal was to meet with Carver, but we'll have to ride hard and fast if we plan on catching the Queen."

 

Ariwyn nods in acknowledgement. She does not like Hawke's mount, much - she rides behind the mage, atop the large horse, far too large for someone of her size to ride alone. They are not as relaxed or trusting as halla, nor do they move as gracefully; not that she has had many opportunities to ride one. Still, she does not think this ride will be comfortable, after long. Her behind already hurts.

 

"Will your wolf be able to keep up?" she asks, glancing down at where Solas pads along beside them, wary to stay just out of sight of the horse, as to not startle it.

 

" _I can be fast as I need to be._ " is Solas' simple response. Ariwyn relays it.

 

The journey is brutal. For two days and nights, they ride, as hard as Hawke had said they will. She seems to handle it much better than Ariwyn does, as she dismounts at night and merely stretches to ease her pain - it takes all the willpower Ariwyn has not to collapse as soon as she slides out of the saddle. Her new companion seems like a well-rounded traveller, able to follow the stars and unfamiliar roads to chart their path. It is just as well, as Dalish never have need for maps as long as they do not stray to human settlements.

 

At nights, when Hawke sets a fire and fashions a meal out of the meagre supplies she has brought in her pack, Ariwyn takes the time to breathe in the air of reality. It is strange to see the world lie flat; the sky does not shift, does not swirl in the same patterns as the water of a spirit well; the ground does not change; the days do not last ten minutes, and then twenty-four hours the next. As much as she had settled into her life in Uthenera, the real world has such a certainty to it, it is relaxing.

 

Solas acts as a comfortable pillow to rest her head on, at night. She lays, snuggled up against the warmth of his side, and dozes off to more dreamless sleep to his soft huffs. It is strange, how different it is to be around him like this; he is soft, likes her touch, and does not waltz away from her mid-thought rant with his hands tucked behind his back. He is more relaxed with her like this, too. It is as if a wall between them, built when they both walked on two feet, was taken apart when he vowed to stay at her side in her time of worry.

 

Eventually, a settlement comes into sight one evening, as they ride away from the sunset. At first, she becomes hopeful, and thinks it might be the capital city of Ferelden, only to realise it must be far too small. Shemlen towns and villages are far too big, she can't imagine a city would be as small and cramped as this. Buildings stack atop one another, gaps barely big enough to breathe between, a small stone perimeter wall around the entire town. Sights like these usually scare her. It is only when Hawke gives a passing guard a nod in greeting that she relaxes; she will not fall into danger, not when she is protected by a human, and a fearsome guard wolf.

 

"We'll stay here for the night," Hawke says. "You look like you could use a real bed."

 

A real bed? In the past, she would have scoffed, for any real bed to a Dalish was the hard ground. Now, however, after spending so long in the comfort of Uthenera, a hot bath and a soft bed sounds like exactly what she needs.

 

"Here," she tosses a scarf to her, over her shoulder, "You should wear this. Not many take kindly to elves."

 

Of course there would be a catch. But, Hawke is right; she wraps the scarf up around her head and around her neck, tucking her ears out of sight. She does not look out of place, as they slowly trot into the town walls - there are people, shady and dangerous, who wander up and down in similar garbs, hiding from anyone who would look at them. She has heard of shemlen towns like this, where you cannot breathe relief anywhere else someone take advantage of it. Suddenly, she is glad that magic lights up all corners of Uthenera.

 

Eventually, after winding through crowded streets, lined with scrupulous merchants, Hawke pulls her horse to a slow stop. They dismount, outside a building with open windows and door, warm light pouring out onto the street. It would look welcoming, apart from the shouting and clamour coming from inside. Hawke does not seem off-put; she tethers the horse to a post outside, and beckons her to follow.

 

Inside is as bad as the sounds from outside made it. Shem men of all sizes, and some dwarves, across the hall are fighting more viciously than she had seen in a very long while. One man nearby hoists a dwarf, and tosses him across the room, where he takes down a mounted head of an elk. There are broken tables, those few still intact being used as platforms of higher ground between more fighting opponents. A tankard goes flying past Hawke, barely missing the pointed tip of her nose. A man yells, and charges at another, his fist knocking him out almost instantaneously. Across the room, it appears like almost everyone but a few barmaids - that duck and dodge like this is normal - are engaged in fighting some way or another. The man behind the bar continues to clean a tankard with a cloth as if it were a quiet night of business.

 

"Now this is my kind of scene!" Hawke grins from ear to ear, and immediately beelines for the bar. Ariwyn is more cautious, and follows carefully, ducking out the way of each blow by mere seconds. When she finally reaches the bar, she has had too many close calls for one night alone.

 

" _And this is civilisation._ " Solas snorts, and she feels his tail brush her ankles under the bar.

 

Humming, Hawke calls the barman for a drink, and offers her one. Almost immediately she shakes her head, so Hawke drinks alone. She seems annoyed. "I was supposed to meet someone here." she grumbles, taking a sip of her drink and looking over her shoulders. "And yet, I can't see him anywhere."

 

"Who were you supposed to meet?" Ariwyn asks, her voice raised over the racket behind them.

 

Hawke looks up, and catches her reflection in a dusty mirror hanging behind the barman. Her eyes jump wide, and swiftly, she ducks her head down against the bar top - just in time for a steel tankard to crash into the wall above the mirror.

 

"Alright, that's it! I've had it!"

 

"Hawke, wait-"

 

Before she can even breathe a word of warning, Hawke has entered the fray, banging heads together and kicking up a stool to swing at a nearby drunkard's head. She's barely visible, only coming up from the crowd every so often to yell a victorious battle shout as another goes down.

 

" _That, lethallin, is our trusted guide._ " Solas points out, and she can almost hear him chuckle in his throat.

 

"At least she's resourceful." she murmurs, as Hawke's fingers flick up, subtly as to not be noticed, and swings a tankard from a nearby table across the room to a dwarf's face. He tumbles back to make a loud _thump_ on the ground.

 

" _I believe that is considered cheating in a realm where not everyone is adept at magic._ "

 

She seems to engage in another tangle, but this opponent seems less drunk than the rest. She grapples with him, looking more like a fierce Dalish warrior than any shem mage Ariwyn has ever seen. The two struggle, pushing and shoving and eventually, she gives up to wriggle out of his grasp and duck under his arms. In the light, something in the skin of his arm catches; it looks almost like vallaslin.

 

Hawke spins and attempts to tackle him, only for him to grasp her arms and launch her far too gracefully and gently onto the table before him, where she lands almost perfectly on her feet. Blinking, Ariwyn tries to understand what she is seeing; this looks far too much like a rehearsed _dance_ than an actual battle. Hawke dives again, this time with the higher ground, and he catches her - he doesn't push, nor does she attempt to fight further. Instead, they _kiss_.

 

Suddenly, she feels like she shouldn't be looking anymore. Face flushed, she immediately turns back to the bar, but she can still see a vague reflection of them in the mirror. His hands touch across her as if she is a treasure all in her own right, and her fingers lock so tightly in his hair it's hard to imagine it doesn't hurt.  _Definitely_ not a battle.

 

" _So, our guide has a companion of her own._ " Solas murmurs, and his breath comes out in a sudden huff against her leg.

 

Wisdom contemplates, and almost, _almost_ sounds amused. " _Ah yes, a **companion**..._"

 

Of course, Solas can't hear its tease. Until now, Ariwyn wasn't even sure spirits of Wisdom could tease.

 

Hawke returns to the bar, and is disappointed when she sees her drink had tipped over since she left the bar. The man returns with her, far too mysterious hidden under his cloak for Solas to stop from practically vibrating with a warning growl - which obviously cannot be heard over the sound of the fight continuing behind them.

 

"This is Fenris," Hawke introduces, and gestures to the man beside her. He is shorter than her, slightly hunched beneath his cloak. "Fenris this is... wait, I've just realised - I've never actually asked your name."

 

She seems appalled by her realisation of this, slapping the non-gauntleted hand to her cheek.

 

Chuckling, Ariwyn offers a hand. "Ariwyn."

 

"A pleasure to actually finally meet you." the woman laughs, and takes her hand, giving it a hearty shake. "So, let's try again. Fenris, this is-"

 

"Ariwyn, yes. I heard her, Hawke." his voice is low, deep. It is almost a little startling coming from one who looks so small next to his partner.

 

Hawke's bottom lip pushes up in frustration. "Play along!"

 

Wisdom hums thoughtfully, at the back of her mind. " _At times this human behaves very aged. Others, she looks like a child._ "

 

Eventually, the tavern settles. Whatever differences people had with one another settle, though Ariwyn figures there weren't many differences to begin with; that was a lot of people fighting over one problem. Some people, like the unfortunate dwarf Hawke had bullseyed with a tankard, are carried out into the street, and the tavern is tidied up enough for them to find a table to sit at.

 

"Where did you find yet _another_ stray?" Fenris grunts, and immediately Ariwyn feels scrutinized under his gaze. She can see his eyes, only shining slightly from under the darkness cast by his hood.

 

Hawke elbows him. "You can't talk." she scolds. Then, she rolls her eyes, and takes a swig of her drink. "I'm taking her to Denerim. She's got business there."

 

He seems to be caught up in staring at Solas, who is curled up at her feet. Solas, nonplussed, stares back. Only then, as she looks at Solas, does some sort of recognition click.

 

"Your name - it's elven." Ariwyn says. It's not a question, but a statement. Little wolf - she wonders who gave him such a name.

 

Fenris glares at her, now. "What of it?"

 

She smiles, a little. "I thought I saw vallaslin on your arm. Are you Dalish?"

 

Never has she seen someone scoff so vehemently. Uncertain, she glances to Hawke, who seems to have preoccupied herself with staring off to her right, sipping from her drink.

 

"These are not your blood writing." a hand, hidden in a silver gauntlet - not unlike Hawke's - brushes back the cloak hiding his arms. He holds it out, for her to see. He is not wrong; the marks, they don't look right. The patterns form traditional body vallaslin, but the skin is raised, like white, thick veins. They look unnatural.

 

Without thinking, her hand reaches out to touch. "They're beautiful."

 

Before she can touch, his arm moves back. It disappears behind his cloak again.

 

"I was a slave." he spits. "My master branded me with these. They give me power, but he used me like a tool. Now, I am not his slave."

 

" _He has struggled._ " Solas says quietly, almost as if he does not wish to disturb the conversation. " _There were - are - slaves in the Empire. They do not deserve their treatment._ "

 

Hawke, still looking away with downcast, hazy eyes, says, "She is not wrong, Fenris. They are beautiful."

 

Fenris says nothing. If Ariwyn had not seem them kiss for herself, she would not believe they were lovers; their silence breathes a tension she would not imagine between two people with such a bond.

 

" _Not all bonds are formed with love, at first._ " Wisdom's words come quickly, and startle her a little when she first hears the spirit speak. She wonders how much love and pain as a result it has seen. " _Far too much_." it tells her.

 

"You look tired, Ariwyn." Hawke suddenly chirps, shaking off the silence as if it were nothing. "Shall I get us some rooms for the night?"

 

She doesn't wait for a response from anyone. Up she rises, and heads for the bar, as if eager to leave the conversation behind her. The silence resumes after she is gone, and Fenris sits so still that for a moment, Ariwyn thinks he is asleep. Then, he sighs.

 

"I..." a pause, and then he speaks, "I _apologise_. If I sounded rude. Hawke often says I do not mean to but I am. If Hawke chooses to travel with you, then she has made a worthwhile companion."

 

Unsure of how to react, her hand rests on Solas' head, right between his ears. This stranger has gone from rude and cold, to complimentary so fast. For a moment, Fenris shudders, as if cold, and readjusts, and pretends as if he has said nothing.

 

" _I reached to him,_ " Wisdom says, thoughtful, " _He trusts none in his life more than his Hawke. He is wise, to trust so few. But his faith is absolute; if she has made a decision, he trusts her with it._ "

 

To Ariwyn, such trust sounded so familiar, yet so refreshing. The clan were like this, able to trust one another's decisions and unafraid to put faith in them. She has not seen it like it since she began her life in Uthenera; the closest to it she has seen is between herself and Solas, and even that seems one-sided for her reliance on him to maintain a life there. Not even Solas' loyalty to Mythal is as dedicated.

 

When Hawke returns, it is with some bowls, filled almost to the brim with a steaming stew. Eagerly Ariwyn eats - the food on the road had not been much to sate her hunger. She finishes quickly, and grows sleepy in her chair. Eventually, Hawke suggests they retire to sleep, and they head up the rickety stairs of the tavern where the hallway is barely lit save for the moonlight shining through the window. There are two rooms, beside one another. Fenris quickly disappears inside one, and after a quick goodnight, Hawke follows.

 

" _Come, you should rest._ " Solas' voice sounds awfully soothing when she's tired. She opens the door, and he trots in, sniffing the air. After a moment, he stops, and she heads in, and closes the door.

 

Immediately, she is drawn to the bed in the centre of the room. It is cheaply-made, and looks barely sturdy, but there is some plush to the worn mattress. Breathing a sigh of relief as she sinks down onto it, her eyes draw closed. They remain that way merely for a moment, before she hears a click. Jumping up, her pounding heart settles after a moment, when she sees Solas' back at the door, and he releases the key where it rests in the lock.

 

"You may trust Hawke, but we are still not safe here." he warns, and slowly walks to where the window lets in moonlight. "Humans do not look lightly upon our kind, it seems."

 

Her heart flutters a little, when he says _our_. She pats the mattress beside her for him to sit, but he shakes his head, and does not move.

 

He sighs. "I loathe to leave you alone, but Hawke has proved she is capable."

 

Immediately, her brows draw together. "Leave? You're leaving?"

 

"Only for a short while, lethallin. True, time does not work the same way in Uthenera as here, but surely someone will notice my absence, eventually." a hand comes out, from where it is clasped behind his back. It swiftly withdraws before it even comes close to touching her. His gaze casts downwards. "I will be back as swiftly as I can. By morning, at least. If not, I will find you."

 

"Even if Hawke insists we leave?"

 

"Even then."

 

Something inside her is twisting up into tight knots. It hurts, a little; she doesn't want him to go. She has taken a liking to Hawke, yes, and Fenris seems a capable sort to help if there is trouble. But they cannot replace Solas - the thought of him leaving frightens her.

 

" _I will still remain, mortal._ " Wisdom's voice echoes through her. " _I will be here, if you require me._ "

 

It isn't like the spirit _can_ leave, but she appreciates the attempt.

 

He seems to notice, or at least her expression gives her away far too easily. Before her, he lowers himself to his knee, and takes her hand.

 

"I will return, Ariwyn." he promises. "I will not leave you here."

 

She squeezes his hand. "Must you go back?"

 

"I am afraid so, yes." there is some conflict in his eyes. In the moonlight, so close, he looks almost as pure as Uthenera makes him so; skin soft, freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks that it looks like someone with a steady hand painted each. She misses when things were simpler, even if that sounds ridiculous. She wants to go back to the life she got used to, to _his_ life.

 

Sighing, softly, Ariwyn nods. "Alright." she says. "If you must go, then you will go. But there is something you cannot forget."

 

A small smile plays at his lips, and he asks, "That is?"

 

"That Fen'Harel has never let his prey escape."

 

The smile widens, and he releases her hand.

 

-

 

It is early when Hawke wakes her, and they're on the road again. Solas is gone, as he said he would be; he has not returned, not yet. Both Hawke and Fenris notice the absence, but only she asks. "He is too clever to be lost, he will catch up." Ariwyn explains, pretending to appear not worried. But if he does not rejoin them before they reach Denerim, will she have to face the Queen alone? She does not even know Solas' plan.

 

Fenris has his own steed, which he rides alongside Hawke's with a swift pace. In the wind, he cannot stop his cloak from falling, and she finally gets to see what he looks like. The same markings he showed her last night travel up his throat, and across his face, and it looks more and more like vallaslin the more she looks. His hair, stark white against his dark skin, looks unnatural; it does not match the black hair of his brows. Magic, possibly the same magic that gave him the markings. Eventually, he catches her looking, and from then on seems to do his very best to remain ahead to avoid her gaze.

 

By late afternoon, they reach Denerim, finally. The sight is most definitely a city; the river along the road beside them runs right up and beyond the wall, disappearing underneath a heavy portcullis that only raises for the occasional small ship that passes through. The buildings beyond the wall rise up, following the peak of a tall mountain that seems to rest in the centre of the city - she can see lights in the distance beyond the initial round of buildings. She has never seen a place so packed, so bustling. It is hard to realise what she should focus on first.

 

"First time in a city?" Hawke asks, and Fenris draws his hood back up around his face as they near the gates.

 

Ariwyn laughs, almost with childlike glee. "I've never seen one so big."  

 

Fenris, all business, calls out across the horses. "Where are we to meet your brother?" he queries, looking straight to Hawke with brooding eyes under his hood.

 

"There's a tavern near the market that he said would be a good spot."

 

With a groan, Ariwyn remembers the last one. " _Another_ tavern?"

 

Hawke chuckles. "Don't worry, this won't be the same as last time. This one is apparently a favourite of the nobility."

 

Now, Fenris groans.

 

The horses slow as they join what seems like a queue to enter the city gates. They wait behind carts of goods, supplies, some acting as transport for people in and out of the city. On the other side of the road, people go in the opposite direction, leaving the city with sometimes the same purpose, some on foot. It takes a while, but eventually, they arrive to where a man stands, dressed in steel armour. His chest plate is dented, a little.

 

"Permits?" he asks. A guard, she thinks.

 

Hawke, without hesitation, reaches out to Fenris. Under his cloak, he unfastens something from his belt, and holds it out to her. A single second to look at the small plaque is all the guard needs, before his eyes widen a little between the slit in his helmet.

 

"Welcome to Denerim, Lady Hawke." he splutters, as Hawke gives the item back to Fenris. "Do you need a tour? An escort, perhaps?"

 

She shakes her head. "That won't be necessary, just directions. To the Gnawed Noble Tavern."

 

The queue behind them grows impatient and yell nondescriptly, but the guard carefully gives each direction through the city carefully. When he is finished, they move along, eventually only coming to a stop when they come across a stable.

 

"Big cities like this have no room to tether horses outside fine establishments, like in the last town we visited." Hawke explains, as she hands the reigns of her horse to a stable hand, and tosses him a few coins.

 

" _Fine_." Fenris quotes, with a disgruntled scowl she can barely see under his hood.

 

"You're right," she quickly corrects, "It was _brilliant_."

 

Hawke remembers the directions from the guard, and leads them through the busy streets of Denerim. There are so many people and noises; she is so thankful Hawke and Fenris stick out like sore thumbs, otherwise she would have gotten lost a dozen times already. Eventually, the streets open up to a large square, surrounded by buildings on all sides. In the centre, which looks more ramshackle, is a large set of tarps, under which there are stalls and stands, their merchants shouting various deals at passersby. Almost immediately, Hawke is draw to them. Fenris catches up, and grasps her waist.

 

"Remember why we're here, Hawke. No spending." he reminds her. She sticks her tongue out at him.

 

They cross the marketplace, and it becomes more difficult for Fenris to stop Hawke before she wanders to a stall. Once or twice, she spends money Fenris clearly does not thinks she needs to, but that does not stop her. Souvenirs, she calls them. Finally, they manage to reach the door at the other end of the market, above which hangs a swinging sign; it reads the "Gnawed Noble Tavern," just as Hawke had said. Stepping up to the door, Hawke gives it a push.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is just a *tad* shorter than the others, as I liked where it ended off. Hopefully you guys don't mind!

The Gnawed Noble Tavern is not what Ariwyn expects. Her very little experience with taverns came solely from Hawke - coincidence? She wonders - and this one is the stark opposite of the last rowdy one they visited. In here it is quiet, lowly lit, with a long bar at the very end of the long hall. Tables line the walls, their benches draped with furs and fabrics. Along the middle, there are round wooden tables where patrons play various card games, and servers walk up and down passing drinks to tables. The majority of the people sat at various tables are shemlen in fine clothes, and occasionally, those less dressed, most likely from the market. They never mingle.

 

"And here I was hoping for a little more excitement." Hawke huffs, the breath lifting up hair before it falls flat once more against her face.

 

She and Fenris survey the hall, before Hawke goes ahead to the bar. Ariwyn chooses to remain with Fenris, who stands almost ominously at the door, arms folded, face hidden.

 

Ariwyn glances once about the room, at then at her feet. "People are looking at us." she whispers.

 

"And?" Fenris does not seem worried. "Let them look."

 

They remain there for a moment, before Hawke makes a gesture at the end of the hall. She beckons to them, and Fenris goes without an ounce of hesitation. Scrambling to keep up, she follows, conscious suddenly of how much more noise she makes when her feet are covered with hard leather. Some of the patrons look up as they pass, and once or twice they catch a glimpse of her under Hawke's scarf and scowl in disdain. She had never met a shemlen before Hawke - she was glad her first introduction to their race was through someone like her. Otherwise, she would've ended up a shem-hater like her father; these people's instant reactions to someone they have never met simply because of her vallaslin makes her want to avoid shemlen altogether.

 

When they reach Hawke, she seems oblivious to the stares their party gets. A drink in hand, she leads them back, behind the bar to a door. Through it, there are no more stares, and it is a relief to no longer have so many eyes on her - she still has thousands if not more souls in her body, constantly watching everything she does, but at least she has Wisdom to keep them quiet. Hawke can't do the same for the shemlen in this city.

 

Down the corridor she takes them, and eventually stops at another door. There is a wooden, painted sign hanging from a nail in the door that has split the wood; "Reserved," it says. Regardless, Hawke pulls the handle and enters the room. Fenris waits for Ariwyn to follow, takes another glance up and down the hall, and then goes too, closing the door behind him.

 

This room is better lit, with sconces burning bright on the walls and a light hanging low over the table in the centre of the room. At it, sit two men; both are human, dressed in a sort of steel plate armour, over which they wear tabards of blue and silver. There are decals of Griffons all over their equipment. Grey Wardens.

 

"You couldn't have found a nicer venue to meet?" Hawke grumbles, a familiarity in her voice. Ariwyn looks closer, and the younger man, with shaggy, short black hair, the same almost hollow-pale skin, eyes bright and blue - he looks so much like Hawke.

 

He scowls, and cries indignantly, "Your definition of nice and everyone else' in the world are two very different things, sister!"

 

That one must be Carver Hawke, then. Marian hadn't told her much about him, but he was not as she expected; from the way he glares at his sister, even as she seats herself opposite him with a smile, makes him feel like a child who never got over being the _little_ brother.

 

The other Warden, sat beside him, is older. His skin is tan, creases across his forehead, between his brows. He looks like he does not sleep much, what for the bags under his eyes. His hair, dark yet greying in spots, is slicked back from his face, ending at the nape of his neck, and has a moustaches that curls downwards like his lips.

 

"How was your journey, Hawke?" he asks, and his accent is funny. Her clan had never come across a shem who talks quiet like him. 

 

She beckons to them, and she and Fenris take seats at the table too.

 

"It was the usual. I didn't find much in Lothering, but I brought a friend." Hawke gestures to Ariwyn, who bows her head in greeting.

 

Carver somehow looks simultaneously confused and annoyed. "You went to Lothering to find things from our family home, and somehow found Merrill?"

 

"This isn't Merrill, you fool! Can you not tell elves apart?" Hawke gasps at him.

 

"They all look the same."

 

"Then I suppose you and Sir Stroud are identical too."

 

Her brother huffs, in frustration, throwing his hands up and slumping back in his seat. " _He certainly is struggling to accept he is the little one_." Wisdom agrees quietly, and she almost laughs.

 

Stroud takes a swig of his drink, and asks, "So what business does your new friend have in Denerim, Hawke?"

 

Hawke looks at Fenris, then at the door. Without a word being said, the elf rises, disappears out the room, and closes the door tight behind him. Then, folding her arms on the table, Hawke leans forward.

 

"What are the chances of you getting us in to see the Queen?" she asks, her voice low.

 

The older Warden almost spits his drink back up. He chokes on it, coughs for a moment. Then, once it's cleared, he laughs, incredulously. "You cannot be serious, Hawke. What business could an elf possibly have with the Queen?" then, as an after thought, he waves a hand at Ariwyn. "No offence intended."

 

"None taken." Ariwyn twists her fingers, and hopes she can improvise convincingly enough based on what little information Solas gave her before he left. "I think I may have information on Archdemons. Or, at least, information you might not already be privy to."

 

Stroud seems taken aback, or at least, as much as he can be without spitting his drink again. Suddenly serious, he sets down his drink on the table, and leans forward.

 

"How vital is this information?" he asks. "Where did you get it?"

 

That is a difficult question to answer. Wisdom suggests she tell them it was it that told her, but it would not do well to announce she had a spirit in her mind - they'd claim she was an abomination and then where would that get her?

 

"I can only share that in confidence with the Queen." she says in the end. In truth, she does not know the extent to Solas' theory.

 

Stroud sighs. Folding his arms, he looks at her closely, scrutinising. 

 

"I will be with her, Stroud. I'm not foolish enough to think an elf would get an audience." Hawke offers. "We can simply ask for an audience for myself."

 

That seems to reassure him, a little. He probably would've assumed her an assassin if not for the circumstance; she is grateful for Hawke's input.

 

He waves a hand in the air. "We shall see." he sighs. "But from the sounds of things she will not be here long, and getting her away from her King long enough for simple reports has been difficult."

 

"Stroud, I really do believe this is worthwhile." Hawke murmurs, "Ariwyn is certainly a strange one, but that's exactly why I think we should believe her. I've seen enough weird shit in my time to know when there's something larger afoot."

 

He stares at the both of them, long and hard. Finally, he gives in with yet another sigh.

 

"If I can get an audience with the Queen," Stroud says, "Then it is yours."

 

-

 

They stay in Denerim for two whole days before any news comes from the Warden. The room Hawke rents for her is comfortable, and more than she needs, but she misses Solas. When she thinks of Uthenera, it feels so far away, now; the days with her clan even further. Her life has been turned upside down twice in recent memory.

 

She is so grateful she met Hawke. Even if this audience she is arranging fails, even if she finds a solution for the many minds in hers and can return to Uthenera, she is grateful. The whole journey, she has protected, clothed and fed her as if she wasn't a stranger, but a close friend. She does not know how to repay her, nor how she will feel about leaving her behind once she finds a way back.

 

There is not much to do while they wait; Hawke takes her to the markets to buy fresh clothes to replace the ones of Bethany's she found. After she's changed into the new clothes, Hawke gathers up the old, gives them a melancholy sigh, and then discards them. "No use for them now," she says, and pretends to be nonplussed.

 

Hawke is more than she initially seems. In the time they wait, she learns more about her, from herself, and Fenris. Mostly, Fenris does not say anything; he just looks at her when she doesn't know he is, with bigger puppy eyes than what she had ever seen on Solas, an actual wolf. That, mixed with Wisdom's brief understanding of him, reveals a bond deeper than she had seen before. There's no hesitation; he trusts her absolutely. Hawke herself talks to her a lot about her own life; an apostate, she had to hide her and her sister's magic her entire life until they fled from the Blight and moved north to a city called Kirkwall. She is vaguely familiar with it, as the clan spent a decent amount of time in the Free Marches. In Kirkwall, she met Fenris, as well as many of her other friends which she tells tales of - Varric, a ("beardless," Fenris adds) dwarf, comes up often. She's nobility there, an unofficial advisor on matters relating to magic to the Viscount. It's not a wonder, then, why Hawke is able to afford to board herself and Fenris, and her, as well as have enough sway to request an audience with the Queen of Ferelden.

 

Finally, Stroud sends word. He meets them in the market outside the Gnawed Noble, trying his very best to ignore the pestering shouts of a nearby merchant convincing him to buy, "Find Dwarven Crafts," which are apparently, "Direct from Orzammar."

 

"There you are," Stroud looks relieved as he marches to them, eager to get away from the red-faced dwarf. "I bring news from the castle - the Queen has agreed to a brief audience, but I advice you now, if it is not important, do not waste her time. She is not in the greatest of moods lately, stricken with headaches."

 

Hawke grins, and claps her hands together. "Then we'll not waste her time!"

 

Suddenly, Ariwyn feels panicked. It was Solas that wanted this audience - she barely knows the minimum of his theory. If three of the Archdemons are the Forgotten Gods, then what? How will they know for certain? How will the Queen be able to do anything?

 

Regardless, they head through the city, up towards the mountain's peak. The castle sits high up, overlooking the entire city. Once they break up through the first layer of the city where the stooping houses reach, it is easier to see the city as a whole. It sprawls, its furthest walls only stopping when they reach the other mountains around the range. Despite its considerable beauty, there is something not right about it; it is hazy and warm, all browns and oranges. She misses green.

 

As they go higher, the city changes. No more are the stone tiles of the road cracked, or in places missing entirely; the buildings stand tall, and are well maintained, one even being painted a fresh white as they pass; there is some greenery, controlled ivy growing up some of the buildings and stopping in small flower beds along the streets. There are plenty of guards patrolling here, at least triple the amount they encountered in the market. People pass them, but are too wrapped up in maintaining their posture to look at them; shems in fine dress with clean skin, styled hair. The other other type of people they pass are like her, elves with faces bare of vallaslin, scuttering about after their masters in torn clothes. Quickly, Ariwyn pulls her scarf closer around her face and hides away from them. She cannot believe elves willingly exist like this when they could be Dalish. The Dalish aren't perfect but they're not prisoners.

 

After so much walking, they enter a wide street that is lined with more of the fancier buildings, and would look like any other grander lane they have passed through, if not for the large portcullis at the end. At the moment, the heavy metal gates rest open, their spiked bottoms only just in sight from behind the stone wall. A handful of guards stand at the gates, and stop the occasional noble entering and leaving the castle; they seem very insulted when asked for their purpose there. They reach the gate, and the guard barely even looks at Stroud once before allowing him and their party through. Within the walls, there is a large courtyard, only partly paved up the centre. Around there is rough earth, where there once looked to be gardens. In one corner of the courtyard, there is wooden scaffolding, where some builders take a break. They look to be repairing a wall, and the ground before it is charred.

 

"What happened here?" Ariwyn asks quietly, to no one in particular.

 

Stroud is the one who answers. "The Fifth Blight ended in Denerim. Their Majesties put off most repairs to the castle until after the rest of the city was returned to relative normalcy."

 

They climb a set of stairs that lead up to the large, ornate doors carved with a design of roaring lions. They are stopped by a guard, who seems to confirm some sort of identification with Stroud. After a moment, he allows them entry.

 

Fereldens don't build like ancient elves, but the castle is nevertheless impressive. The ground is carpeted a royal blue, rich and bright. Beneath it is hard, almost shining stone, which is broken up every few feet with a thick pillar of dark oak, carved into shapes that bend inwards a little. The entryway they step into is relatively small compared to the room she sees beyond a set of heavy, half-closed doors; it goes on a considerable distance, and at the end, there are a short set of stairs. At the top sit two thrones - one of them is obscured in shadow.

 

Stroud converses with a servant, quietly, who nods at him. She feels so out of place in her simple clothes, with her pointed ears. But neither Fenris or Hawke seem perturbed. Unfortunately, their calmness downs not quell the raging nerves in her stomach. Her nails are practically chewed down to the bone when the servant finally leads them through winding corridors and up stairs. The castle feels so quiet, almost eerie. The only movement she sees other than their group is the occasional servant hurrying by.

 

The only thing that can come close to meeting royalty was meeting Mythal - that did not go well. And she didn't even give her the news she plans to share with this Queen, that there are ancient and dangerous forces worse than she can imagine possibly ready to unleash hell. Would she even listen?

 

"Here we are," the servant says, in her soft and high voice. "Milady has been suffering from terrible headaches, so please do keep your voices down."

 

Stroud looks to Hawke, and she nods. She steps forth, as boldly as if this is her audience that was arranged. With a beckon, she looks to Ariwyn to follow. Uncertain, she steps forward, wringing her hands together.

 

Breathing out a sigh, she begins formulating sentences in her head. When nothing comes, her heart begins to race. However, it is too late now. Hawke opens the door.


	19. Chapter 19

The room they enter is very quiet, save for the faint crackling of a fire across the other side. It looks like a study, reminiscent of Solas', but rustic; the warm timbers and deep coloured rugs that decorate the room, accompanied by its wooden-frame furniture plush with embroidered cushions make it feel homely. Bookshelves line that walls, filled with tomes of all different colours, sizes, with a multitude of languages written down the spines. If this is where the Queen spends her time, she must be very learned.

 

Before the fireplace directly across from them is a cluster of couches, and beyond that, a desk. This is where Ariwyn's eyes find a figure, her back to them. Inexplicably, Ariwyn had envisioned a battle-hardened warrior prepared for a fight, dressed from head to toe in Warden regalia. Instead, she looks strangely small, demure. Her hair, long and dark brown, falls down her back in soft curls; there are a few strands that grey in the light. She dons a gown, in a simple beige a few shades darker than her skin. At their arrival, she turns, and greets them with tired eyes, though her expression is set rigid and readied for business.

 

"Lady Hawke, I presume." she says. Her voice is as calm and level as her eyes look; unmoving, almost cold.

 

Hawke moves forward, and bows. "Your Majesty." she too remains collected and polite, and Ariwyn suddenly feels out of place. Both of these women, both are leaders in their own right, both have experience in nobility.

 

" _Experience in nobility, yes._ " suddenly, Wisdom speaks. It is beginning to startle her less and less, even though the spirit speaks when she does not expect it. " _But, only you have had the chance to dance in one of the oldest courts of Elvhenan._ "

 

It is not wrong. She keeps her smile on the inside, and thanks Wisdom. Its encouragement helps her to lift her feet, walk forward, and how as well.

 

The Queen's icy blue eyes settle on her. "Your hand maiden?" she asks, "I thought you wished to speak alone."

 

For a moment, her tall human companion looks back at her uncertain. Then, she speaks. "I apologise for the deception, Your Majesty." her head bows, before she takes a step back. "This audience was not for me. Ariwyn is who must speak with you."

 

Her eyes, so bright, flick between the two of them. She almost looks as if she is calculating, judging whether or not Hawke is trying to jest. When she says nothing, the Queen sighs, thoughtfully.

 

"Very well. No matter from whom it comes, information on the Blight is valuable." the Queen finally decides, and moves forward, to where the couches sit. "Join me then, Ariwyn."

 

Hawke gives her a small smile of encouragement, before retreating back to the door, finding a spot near it to lean against. When Ariwyn meets the Queen in the centre of the room, Hawke doesn't even seem in the same room anymore.

 

"An enchantment," the Queen says, almost absentmindedly. It is as if she knew what Ariwyn were thinking. "Just this small part of the room. A bubble, if you will - no one will hear us talk, here."

 

She can take some relief in that, then. "Who made it?" she ponders, "I thought shem- _humans_ hate mages."

 

This seems to amuse her. "If I personally believed in Templar propaganda, do you really believe your friend there would be allowed to leave?" her finger points towards her, and through her, to Hawke.

 

It would probably be for the best to avoid mentioning her own magical power, just to be on the safe side.

 

The Queen sits on one of the couches, and begins to pour hot water from a teapot into two small, delicate cups. She does not ask if Ariwyn would like one, she simply offers her the china when she is done stirring a tiny, silver spoon in each. Slowly, Ariwyn lowers herself into a seat opposite.

 

"Ordinarily," she begins, sipping from her tea. She frowns for a moment, before setting it back down, and her expression smooths. She continues, "I would not have accepted Stroud's request to speak with you. However, his promise of information from you comes at an... Interesting time. I, and a few other Wardens, have had dreams."

 

Ariwyn now frowns. "Dreams?"

 

She nods, somber. "Dreams the like I have not had since the early days of the Fifth Blight."

 

Wisdom tugs gently at the back of her mind, grabs her attention. " _Grey Wardens... I have heard of these. Mortals consuming dark power too strong, too tainted. It gives them strength, robs them of their minds_." it says, ominously. The Queen doesn't look insane.

 

"Is that why you suffer from headaches?" Ariwyn asks. Trying to be polite, she takes the smallest of sips of her tea, testing it. It takes all her strength not to screw her face up; it is ungodly sour. She sets the cup down, and hopes that the Queen won't notice she will not pick it up again.

 

"Yes. Or at least, I believe it is related. I have not lived long enough for the Calling, not yet; that is not what I hear." sighing, the Queen rubs at her brow. "My dreams are never clear. There are flashes, screams. I see creatures of malice and death. They always end the same - I cannot kill them."

 

There is a terribly troubled look on her face. For a while, she stares into her cup, where small wafts of smoke rise from the hot tea. Then, she looks up.

 

"Perhaps you can shed some light."

 

If the Queen, a Grey Warden of legend, is suffering from nightmares - potential premonitions - then perhaps Solas was right. The Forgotten Ones would prove to be more devastating than any Archdemons Thedas have faced; powerful Gods in their time, slumbering for thousands of years, building hate as much as their power. She shudders.

 

Clearing her throat, she begins. "Humans believe the Darkspawn were made of the Tevinter Magisters that invaded the Golden City, yes?" she asks, and the Queen nods.

 

"That is what the Chantry tells us." she looks vaguely disgruntled at the mention. "It is a tale to inspire us to avoid being brash based on our own arrogance."

 

"In Dalish culture, we do not have a way to explain the Darkspawn any differently, but-" huffing, she scrambles for a way to explain. "Among our gods, there were others; those of us that remember them call them the Forgotten Ones, terrible creatures of destruction and violence."

 

The Queen's eyes narrow. "They sound all too familiar." she murmurs. "Your appearance here to explain this cannot be mere coincidence."

 

"Which is why hearing about your dreams is all the more worrying."

 

For a moment, she thinks, quietly. Then, the Queen takes one more sip of her tea, and sets the cup down on its small saucer, atop the table in between them.

 

"These Forgotten Ones - you believe them to be Archdemons?" she asks. Her voice is grave. With very little description of them, already she seems to understand what it could mean.

 

Ariwyn nods. "Quite possibly, yes. I know they did not disappear when the other gods, the Evanuris." hesitant to speak about their hidden world, she does not explain. "The Forgotten Ones are probably simply waiting. They are unlikely to have been killed."

 

The Queen's hard exterior seems to crumble, for a moment. She runs a hand across her cheek, rubbing at her eye with her fingertips. Letting out such a heavy sigh, she looks pained, stressed.

 

"Can the world simply be at peace for longer than a few moments?" she breathes, before taking in a breath. Then, she looks composed once more. "These creatures must-" her hand lifts, and points at the ground by Ariwyn's feet. "Where did that come from?"

 

Quickly, Ariwyn follows her hand. Her heart leaps in both relief and an inexplicable happiness; Solas rests at her feet, head set upon his folded paws. When she notices him, he rises, stays still for a moment long enough for her to run a tender hand from the tip of his snout, up between his ears. The moment her hand falls down off his back, there is a small flash of light. Solas, donned in his shining golden armour, lowers himself into a seat on the couch beside her, utterly at ease. His hand, covered in a plated gauntlet, very briefly settles on her knee; despite it being cold, his touch is very reassuring and relaxing.

 

The Queen is not as relaxed at his sudden arrival. She leaps from her seat, and there is a _sch-ink_ of metal; from behind the cushions, she retrieves a short sword, its sheath discarded - the tea cups were knocked over because of it. The metal is a harsh, bright silver, it glints in the light. Most importantly, its sharp end is pointed at Solas.

 

"That will not be necessary, Your Majesty." his hand comes up, and his pointed, golden fingers brush aside the blade as if it were nothing. Her heart pounds heavy in her chest, until eventually, the Queen lowers it.

 

"Explain yourself." she demands, and her grip on her sword does not lessen.

 

Swiftly, Ariwyn rises from her seat. "I apologise, Your Majesty, I did not know when he would return." she offers gently, before extending a hand to her elven companion. "This is Solas, Your Majesty. He is my master."

 

"A pleasure, Your Majesty." Solas rises too, and bows at the waist. After a moment, he folds his arms behind his back, dignified and professional. "I assume Ariwyn has explained the situation in its entirety?"

 

Picking up her sheath, ignoring the tea splattering along its edge, the Queen's sword slowly disappears. She keeps it close at hand, though, leaving it visible on the couch beside her. She sits. At it, so does Solas, in one elegant movement. Less so, she sits beside him.

 

"You may not believe me, nor do you have to," he begins, "But the Elven Empire is not dead. I assume we speak in the strictest of confidences, and so this information is yours. Our enemies, the Forgotten Ones, sleep in the world of those that walk in reality. This world, in short. They will wreck untold havoc, they will destroy this world with no hesitation if we do not stop them."

 

"Yes, I gathered that much from this one." she gestures at Ariwyn. "Tell me why you are here."

 

Solas tries to not look irked by her brashness. "I need information on these Blights that have passed. If there is any chance one of these creatures have already been vanquished, then it will make our task all the easier."

 

"Each Blight was terrible, haunting." the Queen's eyes cloud over, momentarily. The slightest shudder runs through her. "Historically, the most terrible Archdemon Grey Wardens faced was the leader of the Third Blight. It was one of the bloodiest battles in history."

 

Ariwyn can tell what he is thinking. "There would be no one alive that saw that battle." she says. _No immortality in this realm_.

 

For a moment, he goes quiet. Then, he says, "We have very little idea of how the Forgotten Ones have changed since our last conflict; if this corruption can do so much to one's mind, I would have liked to have an idea of how."

 

"The Archdemons have each been one of the seven Old Gods of Tevinter." the Queen speaks up, and seems more relaxed, crossing her legs. "To be Gods, I would assume they were once benevolent. However, I only have experience of them when they were... not so."

 

"Your experience may yet prove invaluable." Solas finger taps at his chin, brows drawn and quizzical. A slim braid of his hair slips down over his shoulder. "Perhaps you would not trust us, but I would ask all the same; would you accompany us for a while? I would very much like to see your experience for myself."

 

Her brows quirk. "You ask the Queen of Ferelden to simply go off on an adventure to satisfy your gauge of experience?"

 

"Not at all. I wish to see your experience - literally. We can take you somewhere where it is possible for your knowledge to be passed on."

 

Now, her brows dip, as her eyes narrow. "Some sort of Ancient Elven magic, I presume?" she asks, almost patronizingly. Despite it, she lets out a sigh. "I do not suppose I have much choice. You have provided me with information, and I will do the same."

 

"You will accompany us, then?" Solas seems like he expected more resistance.

 

"If I can end a Blight before it begins," the Queen says, eyes cold and icy, "Then I will do so without hesitation."

 

-

The moment they leave the Queen's study, Ariwyn drops to her knees before Solas, now all-fur and on all-fours. She throws her arms around him, and presses herself so close that for a moment, it hurts.

 

"You scared me," she breathes, spitting out the fur that sticks to her lips, "You were gone for days."

 

As she leans back, Solas' head cocks to the side. " _For me it was mere hours._ _Time certainly is strange._ "

 

Hawke, who appears to had left the study shortly after they began talks, approaches from the other side of the hallway, setting her hands on her hips.

 

"You were gone a while," she notes, "How did it go?"

 

Ariwyn clambers to her feet, and explains _some_ of the happenings. Mostly, she tells Hawke it was a success, and the Queen was willing to believe her. She thinks it is probably desperation driving her; a Grey Warden with the knowledge to end Blights before an Archdemon even rises. Of course she would be willing to believe.

 

"Well done, then." Hawke gives her a genuine smile, that causes small dimples to cave in her cheeks. "What happens now?"

 

"We will head back where we came," Ariwyn explains. "Back to the Arbor Wilds. There is some business we must attend to there."

 

Hawke seems taken aback. " _Back_ to the Wilds? Either you are looking to become Darkspawn, or you love danger."

 

 _Neither_ , she thinks, but simply chuckles a little. Solas brushes up against her legs, his tail swishing at her ankles. She settles a hand atop his head.

 

"Oh, so he returns." Hawke squats before him, and scratches under his chin. For once, Solas does not retreat at her approach. "Get lost on the way, hm?"

 

"He's not usually this friendly." she pretends to be confused, but gives him a pointed look.

 

" _She took care of you where I did not._ " he simply grunts. " _I will allow it, for now._ "

 

Rising, Hawke stretches her fingers, before looking at her with an expression of finality. "Fenris and I must leave for Kirkwall tonight." she says, and her fingers twine tightly together. "I've already paid for board at the Gnawed Noble for the next few days if you need it. I'm afraid I won't be coming back with you to the Wilds, of all places." there's a laugh in her voice.

 

Something tugs in her chest. Her time with Hawke has been short, but she has taken too much of a liking to her for parting ways to be easy. From the despondent look in Hawke's eyes, she feels the same. Lifting a hand, she offers it to her.

 

"Thank you, Hawke. I don't know how I'll ever repay you." she smiles.

 

Hawke takes her hand, and gives it a hearty shake. Then, she gives it a tug, and throws her arms around her; she feels so small pressed up against such a tall woman. After a moment, taking in her initial surprise, she smiles, and hugs back, just as tight. It has been so long since anyone has hugged her - she did not realise how much they meant until now.

 

When they draw apart, Hawke pats her shoulder, and gives it a squeeze. "Take care of yourself, you hear?"

 

Ariwyn nods, and smiles. "I will. I should say the same to you."

 

She snorts a laugh. "I'm the worst person to try to ward away from danger. It doesn't leave me alone." then, she nods, and tries to wipe the grin off her face. "Well, I'll be going. You should come visit me one day, in Kirkwall. I can introduce you to everyone."

 

"I'd like that." she says it honestly, because she means it. The more time she spends here, the more torn between her lives she becomes. The clan, her duty, her father, the Keeper, Hawke - versus infinite time, knowledge, magic, _Solas_. Eventually, she is scared she will not be able to choose. The sooner she finds a way to return to Uthenera, the better.

 

With one final nod, Hawke begins away, glancing back a few times before she disappears down corridors and out of sight. Then, she is alone again with Solas. It will be strange to travel without Hawke, but it seems she is trading one shemlen companion for another; it still feels surreal, and her hands still shake a little. Royalty is no joke, but at least it's not like facing Mythal.

 

As she asks a nearby servant - a very skittish elf - where she can leave, Solas pads along behind her, and looks very smug with himself.

 

"I did all the work." she grumbles, as he swishes his tail high in the air behind him. The elven servant leading her looks all the more frightened, and picks up his pace.

 

" _You did indeed, and I am proud of you._ " his head nudges her leg. Her face grows very hot, very quickly. " _However, my mind is elsewhere. I believe I may have a solution to your problem._ "

 

Her heart jumps. She bites her lip, hard; this should wait until they are back to the Gnawed Noble, in her room away from prying ears. But she cannot contain her excitement. Dipping down, she drops a kiss on the crown of Solas' head, brushes the hair back flat with her hand. He chortles.

 

Eventually the servant leads her back to the entryway of the castle, and she can only hope she remembers enough of the path through the city to return to the markets. Asking for directions from shems seems like a very poor idea, considering the usual elven treatment. She barely mouths a "thank you" to the servant before they dash off away from her, bare feet slapping against the cold stone.

 

"Come, let's try to get back before it gets dark." she says, and Solas heads out before her into the daylight. She follows, and they make their way out of the castle, and away from the nobler district of the city as quickly as possible. She makes certain to tug her - no, Hawke's - scarf tight around her face at Wisdom's suggestion. Full glad is she that Hawke let her keep the scarf, but she truly feels like a debt must be repaid, someday.

 

They wander through city streets, some crowded, some deserted, some familiar, some not. When she thinks they are making progress, they make a turn onto a street that she does not remember. Stroud had set a fast pace leading them through the city that morning; only bits and pieces stuck in her mind. Now she feels more lost than she ever had in the wilderness.

 

She doesn't remember _this_ portcullis, but it is unguarded and no one seems to pass through. Long had she given up on trying to remember the paths, and is instead guided by sound; surely the market place would be a noisy area. And so, she keeps going to where she hears voices, and oddly, music. It almost sounds like home. Not Uthenera - the Dalish.

 

Immediately, she is drawn to it. She continues through the streets, which become more shabby the further they go; buildings slump down into the street, the paths run with dirtied water, weeds grow between the cracks. To her surprise, she starts stepping over tree roots, that lump the road, careless of the architecture around it. After a certain point, the paving gives in to the tree, and the street widens to a large space of earthy ground. In the centre of the square is a tree, so huge its branches curl down and almost form a curtain of willow leaves, separating the buildings around from it. Underneath it, people dance, sing; they celebrate and laugh, and she feels a sudden pang, a sudden tightening in her chest. They are elves.

 

And not the elves she has gotten used to, either. Not the tall, beautiful and graceful elves of Uthenera. These elves are clumsy, falling in their dances; they are short, would barely reach a shemlen's ear; their music is raw, simple and joyful. But their faces are blank - no vallaslin, not even a hint of it on any of them.

 

 _These_ are the city elves she had always heard about? These same dancing, celebrating elves are the ones oppressed in alienages, swayed to the will of any shemlen that deigns look their way? It cannot be; they feel too much like home.

 

" _Perhaps you are not so different, after all._ " she hears Wisdom say.

 

Cautiously, she steps out into the square, where the party-goers dance, clap along to the music and laugh when someone trips. They do not notice her at first, too enthralled in their celebration. Eventually, though, someone does.

 

An elf boy, young enough to not have even lost his baby teeth yet, approaches her. At first she does not realise he is there, until he tugs on her sleeve. She opens her mouth to speak, to explain herself, but he points up to her face.

 

"You have pretty drawings on your face." he says, and gives her a grin. "I've never seen someone with anything like it before."

 

She cannot help herself but smile back. "Thank you. They're called vallaslin."

 

He struggles over the word. "Vala-seen?" he frowns, almost like he knows it isn't right. Quite suddenly, it makes her uncomfortable; even the youngest of children in the clan know basic elven. The boy talks like a shem.

 

"Valen? Valen, I told you not to leave the circle!" a woman's voice scolds, and a woman comes through the crowd towards them. Quickly, she scoops up the child in her arms, glaring at him in disappointment. Then, her eyes seem to notice Ariwyn, simply standing there with a wolf at her side. "And who are you then?"

 

Ariwyn opens and closes her mouth a few times, before she finally manages to think of something to say. "My name is Ariwyn, I got lost on my way back to the inn I'm staying at." she might as well be honest. What has she to lose?

 

"An elf, staying in a tavern? You must be mad." Valen's mother laughs loudly, clearly expecting her to do the same. When she doesn't, her worn face falls back into a frown. Then, she takes a closer look at her, and is taken a little aback. "You're one of them Dalish!"

 

A little conscious, she adjusts her scarf. "I am, yes. Would you like me to leave?"

 

Instead of pleasing her like Ariwyn thought the question would, she instead looks insulted.

 

"Leave? Whatever for?" she gives her the closest thing to a smile she has so far. "You may not be one of us, but you're certainly no shem. Welcome in, I say!"

 

Taken a little aback, Ariwyn isn't sure where exactly she is welcome, at first. Valen's mother takes her into the fold, introduces her to a very long list of elves that all seem a little wary, but eventually nod their head or shake her hand when they see her pointed ears. The vallaslin seem to unnerve them, as most either avoid looking at her when they speak, or can barely hold her eye for more than a moment. However, after a little while, they relax. She sits at the side lines and watches the city elves dance, listens to the steady rhythm of their music. If she closes her eyes, it almost feels like she is sat with her back pressed to an aravel, and will open her eyes to see young hunters and children of the clan, dancing circles around the fire; Keeper Deshanna claps her hands together with a smile as they move. Yet when she opens her eyes, she is met with unfamiliar faces dancing the same dance.

 

It hurts, a little. It has been so long since she has seen any of them. She had long since tried to forget, to adjust to her life in Uthenera, but - no. Solas is her family, now. He is all she has. She could not go back to the clan, she could not face them after abandoning them so.

 

" _For the betterment of one's self, sacrifices must be made,_ " Wisdom says so softly, she almost does not hear, " _Even if those sacrifices are the products of the hardest of choices._ "

 

"A very selfish mentality." she murmurs, lips barely moving. No one seems to hear.

 

" _Survival is selfishness._ "

 

There are so many incidents that would prove it wrong. Like the time a young huntress of the clan nearly lost her life fighting a bear far too fierce for her to handle, yet she still brought back the vital herbs they needed to make the medicine for a sickly child. Or when her father almost drowned to save the very last food supplies they had from a raging river.

 

"The Dalish survive because of one another."

 

Wisdom hums. Then, after what feels like an eternity, " _But are you Dalish... or one of the People?_ "

 

Even to her, it feels wrong to try to say they are one and the same. She cannot, not after seeing the truth of the People for so long - how could the Dalish truly be their descendants? She does not know the answer to Wisdom's question. Before making her deal with Prudence, she would claim she was Dalish, proud and true. Now, she does not know what "gift" it bestowed means to what she is.

 

She sighs, and relaxes back against the trunk of the great tree, growing in an impossible landscape. The sun goes down, and she watches the elves, not Dalish but so truly familiar, dance the night away.


	20. Chapter 20

The journey back the exact way they came seems to take so much longer. Maybe it does, considering they're not travelling at the speeds Hawke pushed her poor mount to go to catch the Queen before she left Denerim. It doesn't help either, due to Ariwyn's little experience with the things, she can't seem to get along with her horse. The finest horses were at their disposal, yet they seem very finicky. 

 

Grateful, she lets the Queen lead their journey. She seems to know the way, and they traverse paths that seem vaguely familiar. The image of her fits much better with Ariwyn's imagination now; sat upon a proud grey stallion, back upright and decked in steel armour, the blue fabric of her Warden tabard trailing down the horse's back; a longsword is buckled at her waist, a shield on her back. There is a helmet, adorned with large wings on either side, hanging from the horse's saddle. 

 

"We will drop the formalities for convenience sake, if we are to travel together." she had said, the day they left Denerim. "You may address me as Lillian. And your names?"

 

Lillian Cousland Theirin, she introduced herself as - a mouthful of a shemlen name befitting royalty. Still, away from the castle and in armour, she seemed less and less like a Queen, and more like a battle-hardened warrior, weary of fighting and too experienced for anything but the least expected adversary to gain an advantage over her. Almost all the time, she wears a very straight expression, like a mask impossible to crack; she is quiet, too, barely speaks up. Rather than be intimidated by her, Ariwyn instead only really feels sympathy. She does not seem like a happy woman. 

 

Solas stays close to their horses, on all fours again. He is unwilling to leave her now, he says, considering her company. Besides, someone must guide them back through the Arbor Wilds; he had explained that their destination was the very temple they left, where they would find a very powerful tool utilised by the ancient elves of Arlathan. Intrigued, she had asked after they began their journey up again one morning. 

 

" _ We will go to vir'abelasan. You are most likely familiar with it - the Well of Sorrows. _ " he explains, and her eyes almost jump out of her head. 

 

"The Well of Sorrows?" she spits, flabbergasted. "I thought it was just a myth, a fancy tale!"

 

Solas almost chuckles. " _ It is very much a reality. _ " he does then, at her shocked expression. " _ And it is what I hope will be the solution to your problem. _ "

 

They pass Lothering after four days of riding, and if possible, Lillian's expression hardens further. She takes a glance at it from a distance, then almost refuses to look at anything they pass. Ariwyn asks Wisdom, in a whisper, why it thinks that is.

 

" _ The other Warden, Stroud _ ," it says, its voice very soft, as if scared to disrupt the quiet. " _ Said that the Blight was ended in the north. Perhaps she feels great guilt for not being able to stop it sooner, before it ravaged the south _ ."

 

It is the Queen's constant ebbing stoicism and Wisdom's words that help her realise; she is merely a woman crushed by the weight of the world. 

 

" _ It is easier to pretend to suffer no pain than share your great burden to another _ ."

 

She almost reminds her of her father. There is the same look of pain buried beneath a cold, distant exterior. With a sigh, Ariwyn grips her reigns a little tighter; she misses Hawke as her travel companion already. 

 

The Wilds are more ominous than she remembers. Walking out of them had been a daze, all blurred together in a rush. Now, returning, she swears she sees figures in between the trees that aren't really there, catches shadows cast from impossible shapes in the trees. The sun is bordering on the horizon as they creep closer to the tree line, and the horses begin to huff in discontent the closer they approach. 

 

"The Darkspawn taint lingers here." Lillian calls, and pats her horse's main. "Take care where you step; do not stay in one spot too long."

 

Ariwyn nods, and her stomach twists up in knots. She didn't know the sickness of the Darkspawn settles like dust - she worries a little that the night she spent in Lothering has already caused damage she can't see. Surely she would feel strange by now if something had gone wrong?

 

"You look concerned." she notes, and she feels the Queen's piercing gaze glancing over her. "You're not infected, if that is what is on your mind."

 

She frowns. "How can you tell?"

 

" _ I would very much like to know too _ ." Wisdom says curiously.

 

"I am a Grey Warden." she shrugs. "We can hear the song, the call of the taint - see it in the veins of living things not yet consumed by its curse. You are safe."

 

It does not really answer her question, but from what she knows of the secretive Wardens, that is the best the answer will get. It does not really matter, either, for Lillian has determined she is safe from it regardless.

 

They begin through the Wilds with Solas as their guide; he traverses invisible paths like he has done this a thousand times. He probably has - from what she's seen of the Temple as they left, it is where the bodies of both the ancient Elven Empire lay, as well as the elves of today. It must be tiring to bring them all here. 

 

"Does Abelas guard the Temple?" she asks, out of nowhere. There is a soft humming in the back of her mind at the mention of him, before Wisdom silences it.

 

Solas throws her a sharp look, as if she should not be talking about it, but decides to answer her anyway. " _ Yes. He and the Sentinels guard it from physical threats. _ "

 

"Do you know him well?"

 

" _ A little. Why _ ?"

 

She clears her throat. "Something... Happened, when I was with him. Did he-" she chews on her tongue for a moment before working up the nerve to ask, "Did he have a lover?"

 

His wolfish ears flatten against his head. He turns to look forward, does not speak for a while. Then, " _ Yes, she was lost when Arlathan fell. Since he has tortured himself. He does not believe she would be dead if he had been better. _ "

 

" _ Tragic but not entirely true. _ " Wisdom murmurs. " _ If fate willed her death then that is what would have come to pass, regardless of his skill _ ."

 

She finds it odd that a spirit believes in fate. She does to some degree, but everything can always be influenced by the actions of anyone, surely. Perhaps she has not fated to be here, but because of Seron, she is. It is confusing, and she does not dwell on it for long. 

 

Even when the sun sets, Lillian tells them to push on. They cannot risk lingering anywhere for too long, especially for camp. So Solas continues to lead through the dark - the Queen holds a lantern that flickers dimly. Ariwyn tries to lead her horse closer to the other, but both are so perturbed they barely listen to commands. 

 

"Hold, for a moment." Lillian calls, and patient, Solas stops. The Queen's eyes are focused on a small path, between two twisted trees; after a moment, she turns her horse, and begins down it. She disappears, her light with her, further into the Wilds.

 

Uncertain, Ariwyn glances at the wolf. "Should we follow?"

 

" _ It is unsafe for you to linger here anyway. Let's. _ "

 

They follow after her, and a few mere seconds later, the light of the lantern comes back into sight. The Queen's horse is stopped down in a small bank, the ground dips in a slow, smooth curve as if this path has been walked hundreds of times. Perhaps it has, for at the end of the clearing there is a house - it has fallen into disrepair, ramshackle and leaning to the side. Some of its supporting stilts have collapsed, and it has partly sunk into the bog water beneath it.

 

"What is this place?" Ariwyn breathes a little uncertainly, as she dismounts, and takes the reigns in her hand. 

 

" _ I do not know _ ." it alarms her a little that even Solas doesn't. 

 

There is a plateau up to the left of the house, that is now overgrown with brambles and grass a murky green. As she approaches to where Lillian stands before it, she notices there are large, but faded scorch marks underneath the disorderly nature.

 

Lillian stares at the marks. There is an anger to her icy eyes. 

 

"I had a friend, once," she speaks, though her voice is low. "Her name was Morrigan, the Witch of the Wilds. She lived here, with her mother."

 

Once again, Ariwyn glances at the shack behind them. People lived in that?  _ Willingly _ ?

 

"One day Morrigan discovered a secret about her mother, they explained many oddities that she'd do." her hand comes up to rest on the hilt of her sword, gripping it tightly. "The old hag planned to possess her body and use it until she was withered, and would do it again with a daughter born of Morrigan's body. She had done it, again and again, for hundreds of years."

 

Ariwyn shudders. That sounds like a very dark magic, one she didn't even think possible.

 

" _ It should not be viable. _ " Solas sounds perturbed. He comes up to brush against her legs. " _ That is an Ancient Elven practise the Evanuris forbade many, many years ago. _ "

 

What use would immortals have to steal another's body?

 

Wisdom snorts. " _ They forbade it because they were not always immortal. Hypocrites of the highest order are the great Evanuris. They practised this magic to keep themselves the rulers of the Empire for millennia, until a secret to immortality was discovered. _ "

 

Intrigued, she wants to ask, but remembers Lillian was talking to her first, before both Solas and Wisdom.

 

"We returned here, and killed her." she says it with so little hesitation that she believes there is no regret in her actions. "Magic is not something I understand, but she was not as easy to kill as you would imagine and old woman to be - she transformed herself into a dragon. It was the first one I ever killed."

 

The way she says  _ first _ makes Ariwyn suddenly more aware of how many battles this woman had fought and won. She is very glad she is on their side. 

 

" _ I do not like the sounds of this woman. _ " Solas sounds more uncomfortable than she had ever heard before. 

 

"Did she have a name?" she asks, curious.

 

"Flemeth."

 

Her heart skips a beat. "Asha'bellanar-" she breathes, in disbelief. "You killed her?"

 

Lillian's gaze turns to her, and narrows. "I did, yes. You think my actions wrong, for preventing an injustice like that to continue for another century upon another?"

 

"No, I- she was  _ definitely _ dead?"

 

"I put a blade through her wicked heart myself."

 

Shaky, her fingers curl into Solas' fur, tightly. He does not ask her what her concern is, but he brushes his head up against her, almost reassuring. 

 

"She is not dead, your Majesty." finally, she says. Swallowing, her eyes glance the worn battlefield again, bearing the scars of a fight years old. "A Dalish clan, the Sabrae, a few years ago - they spoke with Asha'bellanar."

 

Surprisingly, the Queen scoffs. "Impossible," she says, and waves a hand in dismissal. "I killed her. The witch lay dead at my feet, bleeding from every possible limb, dragon or no. I  _ killed _ her." 

 

Solas bristles a little. Ariwyn herself grows impatient.

 

"Dalish do not lie." her jaw sets sight. "One of their young, barely in vallaslin, had the honour of speaking with her."

 

Lillian does not speak. Instead, for a moment more, she grips her sword and glares at where she had seen the body of a witch lay years ago, before rounding her horse and swiftly mounting. After a little while, Ariwyn follows suit. 

 

"This is grave information indeed." is all the Queen says, eventually. 

 

As they continue on, Ariwyn feels unsettled. Suddenly, Flemeth's name makes more sense than it ever did before. Asha'bellanar - the woman of many years.

 

-

 

It seems like hours that they wander through the Wilds, relying on Solas as their guide. She grows tired, eyelids heavy, slouched over in her saddle. The night before, when they had stopped for camp, she barely slept; her mind was too preoccupied on what this could all mean. To her relief, Solas speaks.

 

" _ We are here, lethallin _ ." 

 

There doesn't look to be anything as far into the darkness as she can see. Curious, she dismounts, and pulls her horse up to a stop behind Solas - who, after a small flicker of bright magic, stands on two feet once more. Lillian does the same, though she notices the Queen's hand remains at her blade.

 

Solas' hand, covered by a golden gauntlet that looks tarnished in the dim light, raises. It settles, palm straight against nothing but air. Nothing happens, for a moment, but then - she blinks, once, twice, but the scene doesn't fade like a dream. Before them, there are steps up, once a gilded gold like in Uthenera, but ruined and forgotten. They lead up to a heavy set of doors, which are closed shut. It looks so much like Uthenera that for a moment she actually feels relief; there is a safety there that she does not feel in the Waking world, not anymore. The temple stands tall and proud before them, despite its disrepair and overgrowth.

 

"Come." Solas says, clasping his hands behind his back. He begins up the stairs. 

 

Many things happen at once - there is a loud crash as the doors smash open against the walls, and Sentinels pour out, bows draw so taut, a second of slipping concentration would prove deadly for them. She feels a grip tight on her arm, and she nearly tumbles down the stairs as she is thrust behind Lillian, whose sword is already drawn and her shield is hoisted up before her. The horses whinny loudly in alarm, raising up on their hind legs and retreating back down the stairs and disappearing into the forest. Solas, however, remains completely calm.

 

"Abelas, there is little need for hostility." he says, and raises a hand in peace. 

 

The Sentinels remain poised, their arrows ready to fly. However, the only one that is not armed - Abelas, she recognises - comes through the line of archers and looks most displeased at Solas' arrival.

 

"You return." he says, gruffly. "And you brought a human."

 

"There is an importance to her presence-"

 

Abelas spits at the ground. It cuts Solas off short.

 

"Importance - bah, the arrogance you wield like a knife without awareness!" Abelas glares so hard at Solas, that she is worried he might burst to flame. "This is a second act of sacrilege get you bring upon this holy temple - first, you rest this Waking one-" he gestures angrily at her, "In Mythal's place of rest, and now you bring a human upon our ground!"

 

Lillian does not budge. Cautiously, Ariwyn peeks around her shoulder.

 

" _ Mortal, _ " Wisdom says. Its voice is loud, as if to catch her attention over Abelas' roaring. " _ One of the souls, it calls to him. Let it in; let it speak _ ."

 

"Solas-" she begins, but Wisdom speaks again.

 

" _ No time, those archers will fire if Abelas does not calm! _ "

 

Her heart pounds. Panicked, she squeezes her eyes shut, and it is like she can see it - Wisdom, forming a wall across the back of her mind, opens its arms, just a little. A single wisp, a soft purple that barely glows, creeps through the gap. 

 

When her eyes open, she doesn't feel right. Her body moves, up past Lillian, brushes off Solas' attempt to stop her from moving forward and up the stairs. The soul moves her like a puppet - her limbs move with much more grace than she had ever possessed, like a halla prancing in moonlight. She - the soul - climbs a few steps, and stops before Abelas. He regards her with a cold glare. It hurts, for some reason.

 

"Abelas, my heart," she begins, and the voice is not hers, again. It is Liren. "Please, tell your good Sentinels to stay their arrows. There is need for bloodshed not."

 

If anything, Abelas' expression hardens. 

 

"Do not play tricks again with me, mortal." he growls, and his hand comes forth, grasps the collar of her shirt. He lifts her off her feet as if she were a feather. She hears Solas begin to speak, but the Sentinels draw breath, their arrows pulled even tighter. Abelas draws her face close to his. "You are  _ not _ her. The gall you have, mortal - you are dirt placed next to her."

 

Her hand comes up, and clenches his at her throat. 

 

"My heart," she says again - Liren does not seem to comprehend the danger of the situation. She curses the ancient elf. "The mortal should not pay for the actions of others. Pray allow her the same warmth you gave to me."

 

Abelas' fingers tighten, and she feels the tips of his pointed gauntlets dig into her skin. It draws blood.

 

"You dare continue to mock me with her voice? With her eyes?" his voice, almost unnoticeably, breaks. "You are foolhardy indeed. You do not have the right to use her tongue this way."

 

She smiles. If anyone is to be a fool, it is Liren. She will get them all killed.

 

Liren speaks, but there is something different about it. There is a gravity to her voice that calls her to speak, as well, to raise her voice with hers. What leaves her mouth is an eerie combination of the both of them, two voices speaking in harmony.

 

"It was not your fault."

 

Then, Liren leaves. As fast as she came, she is gone again, disappeared behind Wisdom's wall. She gasps for breath, so disoriented her gaze goes black for a moment. She loses feeling in her body, her legs feel useless. When Abelas, surprisingly, sets her down, her knees wobble, and he offers her a hand to steady her with.

 

It is quiet. When her vision, and some strength, returns, she stumbles away from Abelas, her feet shakily taking stairs one at a time until she reaches Solas - she nearly collapses into him, and his hands grasp to steady her. 

 

"You," Abelas heaves a breath, and waves a hand. There is a harmonious  _ shith _ as the arrows the Sentinels had ready lower, and the strings of their bows slacken. "You may enter the temple."

 

Solas' hands tighten on her as Abelas retreats through the doors, and his Sentinels follow. A handful remain to watch them.

 

She heaves a breath of relief, and feels her eyes droop. She feels more drained than she ever has. All she longs for now is a warm bed, to let her worries fade away until the morning. 


	21. Chapter 21

When Ariwyn opens her eyes again, it is to the sky, stars twinkling in the blackness. Above her, there is a hole, not unlike the one open to the sky in Mythal's council chambers. This one, however, has collapsed in from the ceiling, edges jagged and vines pouring down through it.

 

Slowly, she sits up. The chamber she is in is wide, cluttered with various furniture that doesn't look as if it belongs, scattered about the room. There is a fire pit built into the once-glittering ground beside the cot she lays on - it creaks as she moves. For a moment, she thinks she is alone, until something warm and soft brushes her ankles.

 

" _You did not sleep for long._ " it is Solas, and he sounds concerned, if anything. He sits up, looks up at her with eyes that echo the flickering of the fire.

 

She reaches out a hand, and runs it across his head, down his back.

 

"I am alright," she tells him, and it is mostly true. She feels like she should sleep more, but she feels like she has delayed things enough. Still, she allows herself a moment of weakness - relaxing, she leans over him, hugs him close to her. It is at times like these she almost forgets he is a person, and not just a faithful companion.

 

Then, Solas shrugs out of her arms, and a few paces away. It is mid-step that magic flickers about his figure, and he finishes his step on two legs instead of four. For a moment he does not look at her, merely standing and staring contemplatively at the fire. He looks up at her when she speaks.

 

"Where's the Queen?" she asks. Solas nods his head behind her, and she spins. The hall extends another wide berth, before it reaches three archways, beyond which sits a balcony. Lillian stands there, silent, hand on her blade. "She doesn't trust us." she notes, quieter.

 

"No, nor would I in her place." he says very matter-of-factly. "But she has come this far, and demonstrated a bravery in doing so."

 

It falls quiet for a moment. She watches him, as he slowly paces around the fire, shadows gathering around his sharp jaw and throwing his eyes into darkness. She has never seen elves in her life that could compare to the ancient ones; tall, beautiful, poised and elegant. She wonders how she must embarrass herself in the eyes of others when they stand side by side.

 

There comes a call from the door, far across the hall. "Your mortal wakes, Pride?"

 

It is Abelas. He stands, almost disinterested, in the archway, arms folded tight. His bow is slung from his back. His eyes settle on her in affirmation.

 

"Do not tarry. It does not bode well to push my patience." he says, and struts off out of sight. Solas is scowling.

 

With a small smile, surprising both herself and him, she asks, "You don't like each other much, does you?"

 

He pretends to shrug, dismissively, but there feels like there is more to it. She catches his eye, and stares hard. With a sigh, he waves a hand. "Years ago both of us vied for Mythal's approval, and the role of her most prized General. In the end, it was I who won."

 

"Ah," she murmurs. Competition and jealously never help to sustain a relationship. There were hunters in her clan before so desperate to impress the Keeper, they sabotaged one another's hunts until eventually her father called them out on it. He forced them to work together so that they would not put strain on future hunts. Working together requires that level of trust - clearly missing from Solas' and Abelas' working relationship.

 

"There was also -" he clears his throat, and turns his gaze away, "You often get possessed by a soul around Abelas, no? Liren?"

 

Slowly, she nods. The woman was clearly very in love with Abelas when she was alive, and it appears he was too. She is beginning to think she is missing something else.

 

"Whilst I won Mythal's favour," he says, softly, "He won her hand."

 

Suddenly she feels very uncomfortable with this soul in her body. Liren was loved by _both_ of them? Solas tried to woo her? Perhaps she had not seen enough of Abelas to know if he even has a soft side, but surely she had made the wrong choice? A General of Mythal, a powerful and handsome mage, or Abelas? She is biased, perhaps.

 

"I think I understand." Ariwyn quietly says. She hears a soft singing voice in the back of her mind, wordless, before Wisdom stifles the noise. Liren likes his company as much as she does, it seems - she could not have both.

 

Solas shakes off the silence, and offers her a hand when he loops back around the fire. "Come," he says, and gently pulls her to her feet, "I do not wish to linger here much longer."

 

They call for the Queen, who joins them almost solemn, quiet and contemplative. She seems like a very complicated woman - Ariwyn would love to hear the stories she has to tell, but somehow, it feels like she is not one for stories.

 

"Will you actually tell me your plan?" Lillian asks sharply. "I do not like entering situations involving magic unless I have some understanding."

 

Solas responds, the avatar of patience, as they leave the room and begin down long corridors. "In short, my people have revered this place for millennia not just as it is a temple for one of our gods, but also because it is home to what we call the Well of Sorrows. It is there where countless elders and battle-scarred veterans would pour their knowledge and experiences into the water, for others to use."

 

For once, the Queen shows more emotion than blankness. In fact, she seems a little alarmed.

 

"You mean to take my memories?" her hand fidgets at her sword.

 

"Not take." he corrects, and is calm despite her. "You will share with the Well, that is all. In return, you might learn."

 

She grunts, displeased. "This is why I dislike magic. So vague."

 

Ariwyn spots a hint of amusement on Solas' lips.

 

Eventually, they leave the interior of the temple - or at least it seems that way, for the ceiling had collapsed. The remains of what was probably once a large ritual chamber is overgrown with plants, ornate tiles smashed and split by aggressive roots. Every so often, she will see a flash of movement just out of sight; eventually, she catches one before it leaves, and notices the Sentinels are watching their path.

 

They leave another arched exit, and this time they are truly outside. The path before them is littered with leaves and earth, the paved ground barely visible. Solas continues down it without a glance, and Lillian follows, a hand always diligently grasping the hilt of her sword. Ariwyn swallows; the contrast of the devastation of the Empire compared to Uthenera is startling. The elves there live without cares, or worries - she does not wish to imagine their reaction to seeing her world now.

 

Eventually, their tree-lined path curves, and follows a set of stairs. Abelas stands at the top once more, but at least this time, the handful of Sentinels at his sides aren't brandishing bows aimed at them. He seems uncomfortable letting them pass, but he stands aside. She supposes Solas must have told him their plans while she slept.

 

The Well is beautiful. It sits, hollowed out of the stone plateau, wide enough to be a pond. Surrounding it look like remnants of Eluvians of differing heights and sizes, but their magic had long since drained - they remain still, throwing back a reflection of their party from all around. As they approach, she notices a familiarity to the Well that calls to the souls in her mind, who hum in excitement. Wisdom has trouble keeping them quiet. The water is still, oddly so despite the wind, and it bears the slightest of green.

 

"It looks like a spirit well," she murmurs to Solas, who nods.

 

"It was, once." he seems melancholic. "There were spirits who served as guardians to its knowledge. When the Veil rose, they were trapped in the waters."

 

She understands his grief. She has seen how he is with spirits, heard the wonder in his voice when he speaks of them. The sacrifices made for the Evanuris and their stupid war.

 

The Queen seems agitated, uncomfortable. She glances around at the Sentinels warily. Eventually, she turns to look at Solas, instead. "What do you want me to do?" she asks. She glances once at the well.

 

Abelas struts up beside Solas, and gives the human a pointed look. It almost looks like disbelief that she does not understand.

 

"Bathe in the water." he says, in a mocking tone. "You are the first human to ever have the honour - feel privileged."

 

Lillian does not rise to his taunt. Instead she looks at Solas. "That is all?"

 

Solas nods. "The water will take what you give."

 

With a huff, the Queen squares her shoulders. She unbuckles her shield from her back, as well as the sword from her waist. Ariwyn takes them, but underestimates their weight - she must be strong to carry this around all the time. She keeps a hold of the sword, sturdy and thick, and sets the shield at her feet. The griffin in the Grey Warden insignia roars back at her.

 

The Queen, despite being wary, approaches the well with an air of grace. She stops at the edge, takes a breath, and then steps a foot into the water. Then another. There are steps that she follows, and sinks down into the well, coming to a stop only when her shoulders are above water. It is silent - not even a breeze comes past, the water barely shifts.

 

Then, suddenly, the water ripples. Once, twice, a dozen times. It seems to come alive with a host in it, and the water itself hums with a dim green glow. Her mind flashes back, to the time she met the guardian of the spirit well - the way the water had moved at his touch, and a spirit dove up from it. There is no sign of a spirit, merely eerily tendrils that creep up out of the water, circle the Warden Queen's limbs and, within a second, pull her under.

 

Alarmed, Ariwyn takes a step forward. Solas' hand grasps her arm before she gets too close to the well.

 

"That is normal," he tells her, "She will not drown."

 

She can only pray Solas is right - she can only imagine the heavy guilt if Lillian were to die on their watch. The water stills, yet still glows, like turquoise rays of sunlight streaming the wrong way through the ocean: up instead of down. The waiting grows uncomfortable. They stand, in silence, eyes on the pool. Nervous, she looks up when she feels eyes on her; Abelas' gaze shoots away the moment she notices.

 

After what feels like an eternity, Lillian's head shoots up from under the water, arms flailing and gasping for air. No one moves forth to help - glaring at the Sentinels in disgust, Ariwyn darts to the edge of the pool, careful not to touch the water herself, and offers the Queen a hand. She shakes as she takes it, and follows the steps back to the plateau. She is dry in moments, and the water slivers back into the abyss.

 

"It is done." the Queen says, but sounds uncertain. "I heard voices, but they made little sense."

 

"The spirits," Solas informs, and looks very at ease as Lillian grasps her sword once more, and buckles it to her belt. "They do no harm, merely watch." then, he glances at Ariwyn, "I will be but a moment." he says, and strides towards the well.

 

He steps down into it as if it is the most natural thing in the world. With little hesitation, he ducks his head under, without the spirits of the water to guide him down. True enough to his word, he returns after but mere seconds, and his eyes look troubled. In an attempt to ask, she opens her mouth as he comes back towards them, but he shakes his head, and buries the confusion.

 

"Your turn." he says, and gestures a hand to the well.

 

"M-Me?" she chokes, and looks uncertainty at the pool. It almost sounds like the voices in her head are being echoed back the longer she looks.

 

Abelas throws his hands up, exasperated. "Why not?" he cries, "Let us all take a dip, it is not as if the waters are sacred!"

 

Solas glares, but does not give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, he offers Ariwyn a hand. Taking a breath, she takes it, and allows him to guide her to the edge, her toes inches from being wetted.

 

"Do not resist," he warns, "Allow the spirits to guide you. I only hope that they will know how they might help."

 

Unsure, she glances at him. He gives her a reassuring smile, a small one but assuring nonetheless. He does not release her hand until she does - she takes one step down into the pool, and the water is warm, despite the cold night air. One more step, and another. Eventually, she comes to a stop when the water reaches her neck; it is deeper for her than it had looked for Lillian. Her breath catches in her throat when she feels something oddly smooth and soft shimmy up her leg, and wind around her calf. More of them reach up her body, curling around her waist, her arms - one, perhaps the tightest, winds around her throat. Perhaps it can feel her fear.

 

She barely manages to gasp in a ragged breath before she is dragged under.

 

-

It is dark, for a while. She opens her eyes to it, and wonders if they are open at all. Then, she looks down, around - around her body there are vines, growing green like spirits from the Beyond, tight and holding her down. Her heart races, and she wriggles, pulls, but they only seem to twist tighter, and her skin begins to burn against them. What had Solas said? _Don't resist_? Everything in her screamed at her to, but she willed her heart to calm.

 

Terrified to breathe in, she clamps her lips together, and squeezes her eyes shut. When she chances to open them again, to her shock, it is not the inky void she had last closed them to. It is hazy, like looking at it from beyond a rippling pond. There is a corridor with walls that fade into blackness, lit with warm, glowing balls of magic that flitter about the space slowly, the water dragging behind them. If they go outside the boundaries of the vision, they fizzle into nothing.

 

Slowly, the arms that hold her drift her closer, slowly slipping away when her feet find purchase on the smooth ground. When she looks back, all she sees is the void, still and empty. Uncertain, she steps forth, her limbs heavy and slow. For what feels like an eternity, she wanders, lost and dazed. It feels like she is wandering the halls of Uthenera again, only her head is spinning more than it does when she tries to comprehend that place.

 

She turns a corner, and her heart stutters. Solas stands in the corridor, arms neatly behind his back, gazing away at something in the other direction. Approaching, she squints to see what he is looking at, and she takes a step aback when it shimmers into view. An elven woman, tall and slender, takes long, slow strides towards them. Her beauty is only second to Mythal's, but hers does not feel the same repulsiveness as the Evanuris. Examining her eyes, bright and green, feels like looking into a strangely-vivid mirror. Nervously she skitters back as the elven woman reaches up, slides a hand down Solas' stiff arm, hidden under his armour. Still, he gives her a smile, one that looks more mischievous than she has ever seen on him, and with a bemused sigh, he trails after her when she slips away into a corridor, too bright to see.

 

There is a song, eerily distant, sung in a woman's voice.

 

When Ariwyn turns another corner, she sees the same interaction play out before her. She blinks, at first immensely confused, but as she rounds Solas to see if there is anything at all different, she comes short. It is not Solas, this time - _Abelas_. The woman gives him the same smile, the same teasing beckon as she disappears into a hallway of light. Abelas follows much more eagerly than Solas had, and she is alone in the corridor again.

 

As she wanders, she feels lost. Not simply physically but mentally, as well - she cannot remember how she came to be here, or why. Her mind seemed much more focused on discovering the mystery of this woman, of her sing-song voice she keeps hearing grow closer and further with each step she takes.

 

The corridor she follows eventually stops. Before her is an archway, pouring with brilliantly bright light, spilling onto the floor at her feet. If she enters, might she find where Solas, Abelas and the woman disappeared to? Looking behind her, the eerily blackness is inches from her face, creeping up behind her when she turns her back. There is little choice to be made.

 

When she steps though, she is alarmed by an attack on her senses; despite the feeling of crushing water around her, she can smell foods, delicious and fresh, sweet wines and fragrant champagnes; there is music, and laughter, polite chatter across a wide hall; around her are so many elves, dressed to the nines and dancing in orderly ballroom fashions, talking with crystal glasses in their hands. It feels like she has stepped back into Uthenera, and she knows that she is not, that she is in water, but this place seems more real than the other realm. Almost as if it was.

 

There it is, the woman's voice again. Her laughter sounds louder than the other noise, as if whatever is guiding her is giving her hints. Not wanting to squander what she has been given, she shimmies through the crowds, saying softly, "Excuse me;" but the elves do not even glance once in her direction, as if she is not there. She tries not to be alarmed that her voice made sound, despite the suffocating water all around her.

 

Finally, the crowd becomes scarce, and she steps forth onto a balcony, shuttered away from the party. It is much quieter, out here, and the inky blackness of the abyss gives way to the night sky, stars twinkling beautifully above the skyline of a glorious city. It is reminiscent of the image Prudence showed her of Arlathan. The woman stands out here, alone. She leans against the balustrade, as if waiting - when she looks up, Ariwyn realises this is the first person here to look _at_ her.

 

"You're Liren, aren't you?" she asks, and her voice sounds disconnected from her body. Like it's above her, or behind her, or in front.

 

The woman smiles. It is not intimidating, but it does not feel safe, either. "I am. And you're Ariwyn."

 

She doesn't think she needs to nod; it is a statement, not a question. Upon Liren's beckon of welcome, she comes forward and joins her at the edge of the terrace.

 

"Arlathan," Liren breathes, and lets out a wistful sigh, "Beautiful, is it not? How I have missed it." then, she glances at her sideways. "You have never lain eyes upon it before."

 

It certainly is as she describes. Wonderfully twisting towers pierce the sky, all a beautiful pale white that reflects the moonlight like the surface of water. There is life beneath, people walk the streets, flames of magic keep the pathways lit nature sprawls across rooftops and in gardens for as far as the eye can see. Where the city finally stops, there is a high wall. Startlingly, it looks to be crumbling suddenly, raging fires beyond the other side.

 

"This is the moment before we fell." she murmurs, her voice yet soft and lilting. There is a pain in her eyes, as she turns as if practiced, as if she had been waiting the entrance of both Solas and Abelas on her private balcony. Suddenly, she goes back to pretending as if she could not see Ariwyn at all, as a wailing siren begins to blare in the distance.

 

Abelas looks tense, shoulders square. "We must go, Liren. You must find somewhere safe-"

 

Stepping forward with purpose, Solas speaks over him, "Anywhere in the palace will be secure. Whoever dares step upon our city with the intent of war will not get much further than the outer districts."

 

Once again, his name hits her too well. Pride - so much arrogance to believe they were untouchable.

 

"It is too risky!" Abelas snarls, and comes forward, takes Liren's hand. "My heart, you must find somewhere deep in the heart of the city to hide. Pride and I are to go to Mythal's side, and I cannot promise that I might protect you."

 

Liren casts her gaze down, dark brows drawn tight; it causes creases in her skin that make her appear much older than she is. Her lips part to speak. Whatever she says is lost in the ear-splitting roar that cuts through the entire city. She feels cold down to the bone.

 

Solas, for a moment, appears _frightened_. He takes a moment, composes himself, and swallows. "The Forgotten Ones. They are here."

 

Alarmed, Ariwyn spins in place, flattens her palms against the balustrade; it feels wobbly under her touch. Against the pale moonlight, there is a great beast, wings outstretched, its horns upturned to the dark sky. But this is wrong - the humans caused the fall of Arlathan, and then of the Dales after. The Forgotten Ones did not do this.

 

Did they?

 

When she turns again, her vision is swallowed up by the black water she knows all too well. As she begins to sink, weightless, one of the faintly growing green tendrils snakes through the water, curls around her wrist, yanks. She tears through the water after it, and when it stops pulling, she stumbles out onto a cobbled path. It is still night, and there are cries and shouts, sobbing so terrible it clenches her heart tight. There are fires in the streets, rubble crashed down into her path and ancient elves around her. Most of them are just civilians, screaming and sprinting from the destruction; one of them, the one crying, is a woman, grasping the face of her lover crushed under a collapsed wall. The crushed woman's body is still, bloodied. She is dead.

 

Men and women that look like Abelas' sentinels charge past, ignore the pleas of help. Their destination is the breach in the wall beyond, glowing with a sickly, pulsing green that cracks the sky above, casts ghastly shadows in every nook and cranny. It is more eerie than the pale moonlight that is long since gone.

 

A familiar presence rushes past her, catches her off guard. Liren dashes past, light on her feet. She follows the sentinels, and Ariwyn is quick to in turn chase her. Unlike the ones in armour, Liren stops where she can to help the wounded; it quickly becomes apparent she is a healer, doing her best on limited time to patch up those she can before moving on. Ariwyn can do nothing - she feels like she is beyond a glass wall only to watch. They pass warriors, fighting off human invaders with such ferocity that she mistakes the elves for animals, at first.

 

Humans, and the Forgotten Ones? Surely they did not ally?

 

Something tells her that is not what she was brought here to find out, however, no matter how invaluable the information might prove. She follows Liren who brashly charges through the destruction. There are so many wounded, so many dead; the song that she has heard be sung at the back of her mind grows loud, the cacophony of their sorrow pounding in her head. There are faces she passes that strike her with familiarity, most often on the lifeless bodies lying in the streets. With each pang she feels, a voice drops out into silence. The voices are theirs.

 

There is something very terrible about to happen to the elf she follows, she realises. Is there much she can do to prevent it? What would that do? Could she save Liren from her fate?

 

The breach pulses, and a crack of green magic hits the ground at Liren's feet like lightning. In its confusion, the air tears open with sharp, orange flames, and snaps back to normal after merely a moment. A pair of feet, armoured in twisted metal that spikes in many directions, step out onto the destroyed paving stones. The elf before Liren emanates with the same coldness as Mythal, only littered with such malice that she feels sickly merely breathing the same air - or water, she supposes. Their armour, foul and dark, twists around their body like metallic branches of a tree, spiked out at the shoulders and bloodied across the chest, though not from a wound of their own.

 

"Geldauran." Liren says the name in the same tone as how looking at them makes Ariwyn feel. So the Forgotten Ones were elves - the one before her stalks to Liren on two feet with ears pointing out from between strands of knotted hair.

 

A man's voice, deep and twisted, chuckles. "There you are." he says, and there is a strange noise to how he speaks, as if corrupted. His very presence makes every part of her body shake.

 

One moment, he stands before Liren, pointed teeth shining against his dark skin as he gives her a terrifying grin. The next, he charges at her, and her throat is in his tight grasp. Her toes dangle a foot above the ground, and she kicks. His grip does not loosen.

 

"Where is he?" Geldauran spits, and Liren chokes a gasp. "The wolf, _where is he?!_ "

 

Ariwyn swallows - he is chasing Solas? Glancing up at the sky, the way the world folds in on itself in amidst the green, sickly glow; surely that is not Solas' doing? Is he creating the Veil, now? Did he create it at the fall of Arlathan? There are too many new factors in this version of history that she feels too confused to try to comprehend it.

 

Liren's fingers scratch at Geldauran's, but she only causes blood to pour from her own hands from touching his gnarled armour.

 

"I will ask only once more." he warns, and his voice sends Ariwyn's heart racing so fast she thinks she might faint, and she is not the one being threatened. "You will tell me where that foul wolf is this moment!"

 

In spite of it, Liren cracks a smile. "I will never tell you."

 

Ariwyn feels her throat clench up the second she hears Liren let out a gargled choke of surprise. The dagger in Geldauran's other hand is buried up to the hilt in Liren's abdomen, and the sick creature twists the blade, once, twice. A tear tracks down Liren's cheek and she has long since gone limp, her eyes glassy and her skin pale. Ariwyn goes still - her eyes are focused back at her.

 

With a feral growl, Geldauran tears the blade from her body in one swift motion that rips blood from her. Frustrated, he tosses her body aside like a doll, where she slumps against the paving on her side. The portal he entered throw opens back up behind him and Ariwyn catches a glimpse of the other side; two other creatures in the same armour stand waiting. As soon as he vanishes, Ariwyn rushes to where Liren lay, still.

 

She cannot touch her, cannot lay her on her back or run a finger over her face to close her eyes. Liren lays still like stone, eyes greener than ever before with the colour of the sky shining back at her. Her hands, fingers limp, lay over herself as if the gravity of her body's fall had curled her arms naturally around herself. Despite the battle around them, all Ariwyn can hear is the faint splitting of the breach behind her, and Liren's melodic voice singing quietly in the back of her mind.

 

Another squadron of sentinels charge past, barely noticing the corpse. One of them stops, glances once at her body, takes a few steps forward, and stops. He looks back, and a strangled cry tears from his lips. Alarmed, his sentinels too stop, and watch as he collapses to his knees beside where Liren lay, pulls her into his arms. Like Solas' name rings far too true, the pain in Abelas' voice proves it; there is little but sorrow to see, here. Abelas soon dissolves into a shaking form, hunched over where Liren lies. He buries his face in her hair, but it does little to muffle his tears.

 

Ariwyn feels empty, but her heart feels heavy. Her vision starts to fade, Abelas and Liren slip away, drifting into the blackness until there is little left. As the green tendrils pull her back to reality, Ariwyn notices something strange.

 

Liren has stopped singing.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was playing DAI, and Morrigan kindly reminded me that the wilds in the south of Ferelden are the Korcari - I'm a dumb dumb. Let's pretend the Arbor wilds stretch from Orlais to Ferelden over the border and are technically the same :D

When the tendrils release her once more, she feels dazed. They push her gently out onto the cobbles of the ruined streets of Arlathan, and she feels like she should be more alert for the chaos around her. Yet, the human charging towards her, yelling a war cry with his sword brandished high, goes right through her. It feels uncomfortable, like she is a river someone has ran a hand through. She does not turn around to see where the sword lands; the cry of pain is enough to tell her that it has hit a mark, on someone.

"Where do you want me to go?" she asks no one, and her words come out like breathless whispers.

No responses come. She supposes she would not hear anyone speak, over the noise of the horrifying sounds of the world caving in on itself; the great breach in the sky is merely a few streets away, its great green mass blocking in the cleave in the outer wall. It churns, cracklings and gurgling, as if the spirits it intakes are not to its tastes. Across the city, glowing forms of spirits are drawn to it, twisting against themselves to fight against it. She cannot see what happens to them when they reach it.

A piercing scream of a roar comes from overhead, and she too claps her hands tight over her ears as the people around her do, regardless of their fighting. The screech chills her to the bone, and she feels numb to anything but the fear rippling through her. She dares look up, and the green sky is momentarily blotted out by great wings outspread. At first she thinks it is an ally, perhaps - and then the creature screams again, and the feeling becomes familiar. That is no ally; that is one of the Forgotten.

The great dragon, a hulking, disgusting mess of blackened bone and rough scales that glint a sickly green in the light, unfolds its wings as it crashes to a perch atop the right side of the collapsed wall. Again it screeches, though the sound hurts less from here; its long neck reaches across part of the gap, its wide jaws snapping at the other side where an elf stands alone.

Solas.

The feeling again comes back to her, like it had with Liren; this is what the spirits of the well want her to see. He is what she wants. Hurriedly, she takes off down the street, the sounds of battle all around. Men and Elvhen clash for undoubtably one of their largest conflicts in history, and bodies of both sides litter the streets. It reinforces her hatred, however, when she sees Elven children lying still, in pools of their own blood. What sort of jealousy would push humanity to slaughtering innocents?

She reaches the wall, and cranes her neck up to see. The wall is smooth, no ragged edges aside from where it had been crushed in, and even there it is unsafe; humans pour in, clashing with sentinels and soldiers of the Elvhen, or what little is left. Quickly, she scours the wall for options. There is a door buried into the wall that has been left ajar, the body of an elven scout holding it open. Carefully stepping over her, she finds a tight, enclosed staircase that winds up. She curses as she begins up it; it is better not to delay, as taking the stairs might take long enough as it is to reach Solas.

The stairs take less time than she expects. Though, she is unsure if time is even a factor here; perhaps once she blinked she found herself at the top from the bottom. It does not matter. She crashes into the door shut at the top of the stairwell, only to pass right through it, like the human had her earlier. A little unsettled, she shakes it off, and hurries forward to where the Breach licks the wall.

The Forgotten Ones have not moved. They sit poised at the edge of their side of the wall - one, a great dragon, curling around the other two who stand, both as wicked and twisted as Geldauran had before. They simply watch Solas from across the other side, as if waiting to see what he is doing out of curiosity. When she reaches Solas, he is surrounded by bodies, of humans and elves alike. Cut down by him or someone else, she is unsure, but he is bloodied himself, his armour dented and furs torn, parts of skin red with blood showing through holes in his chainmail. He does not seem interested in his wounds, however; he is focused primarily on the device before him. His hands curl around it, words mutter under his breath. The orb before him spins at rapid speed, crackling with green magic that snaps out as aggressively as the Breach does above them. Every time it does, he flinches, his brows twitch nervously - almost like he expects this to fail.

She moves, mostly to sate her own concern, and settled her hands on his shoulders; she sees him through herself, and she glows translucent green, almost like a spirit. It is a little unnerving. However, it has the opposite effect from what she had intended. He feels her touch, and his concentration falters. The orb slips, crashes back down onto its pedestal, but still hums with magic that fizzles excitedly. Abruptly, he turns, both surprised and confused.

"A spirit?" he breathes, and his hand reaches out inquisitively, and stops against the edge of her arm; he does not pass through like anyone else. He truly is what she is here to see. "I don't understand, how are you not drawn to the gate?"

She almost blurts a question out in confusion, but it appears they do not have the luxury of time. He does not, at least. They both flinch as the sky spits, and a crack of green magic crashes into the ground behind them.

"We must hurry!" Solas seems reminded of his task, and turns back to the orb. At his touch, its humming grows louder, begins to spin once more. It makes her dizzy to watch.

"The Forgotten Ones," she breathes, looking out across at them. They still have made no move. "Why do they watch?"

"I do not know." he says, admittedly, and his voice sounds strained. She should not be surprised he can hear her.

The longer she watches, the lighter she feels. She drifts around Solas, almost like a spirit; her limbs, weightless. She feels like she is swimming. There is a way to help, she just does not know it yet.

Solas grunts. "You must go," he manages in between heavy breaths, "Through the gate. It will not be safe for spirits here any longer."

Resolve in her voice, she says, "I will not."

He opens his mouth to speak, but whatever he says is drowned out by an ear-splintering roar coming from across the Breach. The dragon unfurls its wings, and the others do not seem fazed by the great gusts of wind it bats down upon them as it takes flight. As it swoops across the gap, jaws so close to closing around Solas, something else comes shooting through the air and crashes into it. The dragon's course is knocked aside, crashing into the side of the wall, claws scraping the edge desperately to get a hold. Solas stumbles, the orb clatters back down onto the pedestal. Littered across the dragon's limbs are black feathers, jammed upright like spears.

"Mother is otherwise preoccupied." comes a voice, and another elf joins them on the wall. He is ancient, powerful, dark - but not twisted in the way the Forgotten Ones are. On each shoulder sits a raven, beady eyes surveying the damage to the dragon that gives up on the wall, and disappears only to dive back up.

"Dirthamen, my Lord," Solas sounds both surprised and relieved. "Please, I must focus on the spell."

"Of course." he takes a step back, and leaps, dark wings of feathers spreading behind him and lifting him off the ground. Wordlessly, he clashes with the dragon that now seems determined to rip Solas in half.

Ariwyn tries not to allow her daze to worsen; she has met Evanuris in reality before, seeing another in a dream should not bother her so. Still, Dirthamen was far closer to her imagination than Mythal had been. She supposes, however, that the truth of Mythal was revealed only after she had faced her wrath.

As Solas returns to his spell, his eyes settle on her. "Spirit, I know not of what you are but you must go." his voice is stern, commanding. "I will not know what damage this will cause until I am done - I do not wish you harm."

She drifts closer, and cannot help herself; her hands cup his face, and she gives him a gentle smile, if he can see it.

"You will not harm me." she says.

Something close to understanding flashes in his grey eyes. "You are not truly a spirit, are you?"

She does not know how to answer, so she doesn't.

The peace does not last long. The dragon and Dirthamen clash in the sky above them, their fighting only muffled by the churning of the Breach. However, Solas' eyes grow wide, and he barely ducks in time. She gasps in breath as the Forgotten One passes through her, the blade in their hand missing Solas' head by mere inches. She feels wrong, so wrong; the creature had felt a part of her, for a moment, and that short time had left her feeling violated. So twisted and dark these creatures are.

The way this one moves is familiar, the way it stalks around Solas like prey; Geldauran has joined the battlefield, while one Forgotten remains waiting on the other side. Solas waits, poised for fight, while uncertain; his eyes drift to the orb behind Geldauran. The spell had gotten further, this time, more magic - the orb barely stays on its pedestal for all the shaking and spinning it is doing.

The Forgotten One rushes forward, and his blade crashes against one she didn't even know Solas had. The creature doesn't fight honourably; it uses Solas' preoccupation with holding back his blade to kick him, knocking him off his balance and leaving his grip on his weapon unsteady. Solas is quick to retaliate, using the fall to spin and swing his sword at the creature. There is a great clang as the weapons collide. Metal against metal, gilded gold against twisted blackness.

There is something fanciful about the way Solas moves; he is so elegant and poised, almost like this is a dance to him. His steps are light, his movements quick. His opponent shares some of the elegance in a deadly and dark way, twisting unnaturally to duck under blows, or to serve some vicious attack. They continue on that way for so long that the orb's pedestal begins to rattle, and shake furiously. Solas notices it as she panics around it - it is the split second he takes his eye off his opponent that is his fault.

Solas lets out a cry of pain as Geldauran's slash hits, rips down from his shoulder and across his chest, coming free from the ripping of his armour at his waist. The creature moves back to wind up another strike, only to be knocked so hard in the side that he flies up into the air, and over the edge of the wall. She barely has time to see what hit him before his attacker follows; the sheer agility and posture, combined with her indescribable beauty and vicious bow - it could only be Andruil.

"Pride!" Ariwyn cries, and drifts to his side. He kneels, panting heavily, his hands stain at his chest, soaked in blood. Still, despite his wounds, there is a last heave of strength as he pushes himself to his feet, stumbles to where the orb fights against the pedestal's grip. He barely reaches it, his bloodied hand outstretched - before the sky lights up, and ground beneath them shatters into a thousand pieces.

Even as weightless as she feels, she still falls. She sees Solas among the wreckage, pale and weak, though his eyes are wide, scouring the sky as they fall for the orb. There is little chance for him to reach it; great talons catch him and he disappears from sight. There is not a second to breathe, to wonder if it was an ally or enemy that caught him. She sees the orb, falling just below, spinning so wildly in the air that its magic whips out and lashes all around. Straining, she reaches, fingers so close that the magic scolds the tips. One last push, one last reach.

Her palm flattens against the surface of the orb, and the world comes to a stop. There is no more falling. She hears her own breath, but the crackling of the orb's magic sounds so far away. Then, as quickly as the moment began, it ends, and the orb shatters. Everything burns, and goes white.

-

When Ariwyn wakes, something about her surroundings feels artificial. Outside, she hears birds sing, in strange, stuttering chirps. She is warm, but her limbs feel light, and she feels a little dazed. Slowly, she sits up; the temple in the Arbor Wilds had nothing like the comfort of this bed, the softness of the silk sheets that fall down as she rises. She looks around, and recognises the space. Her room, in the strange world at the other edge of the Veil. It is different; the evidence of it once being storage is gone, boxes and crates, leaving only a sparely decorated but yet lavish bedroom.

Confused, she stumbles out of bed. She catches herself in the mirror across the room; she still wears the clothes Hawke bought for her, loose and almost dirty looking next to the pristine cream of the walls. Despite her pressing need for answers, she still remembers the snobbish attitudes of the elves here, and changes her dress. When clothed in more fine attire, she glances under the bed, and with a regretful sigh, she realises her Dalish clothes are gone.

Out into the corridor she goes, and it is so silent one could drop a pin and hear it. As she walks, the only sound that accompanies her is her own footsteps, soft against the smooth stone. Everything has changed; where there was once the dining hall, there are merely more corridors. She walks and walks and walks. Is there no end to each corridor, the same as the last?

When she hears footsteps other than her own, she almost instinctively hides. Steeling herself, she continues walking, stopping abruptly when the footsteps turn the corner before her. A person faintly familiar stands before her, flanked by an entourage of elven women.

"Ah, there is the little Waking one," Nelaros smiles too widely, like a snake. "Her Lady Mythal sent me to fetch you."

Nelaros, and now Mythal, so soon after returning? Does she know what has happened? Did anyone notice she was gone?

"Where is my master?" she asks, trying her hardest not to let confusion show. Politeness, that is all she needs.

Nelaros waves a hand. "Unimportant. Mythal calls, and so you go to her. Come." he reaches, and her feet lift from the ground. He yanks her after him, and now she truly is weightless, drifting behind his entourage wordlessly. She supposes he does not want to dirty his hands by touching the disgusting Waking one.

He seems to know where he is going; the changes have not affected his understanding of the place. They avoid any others, and in fact she does not see anyone else on their path. Eventually, they reach a place that is familiar, distantly in her memory; Mythal's council chamber.

His entourage remains outside as Nelaros drags her in through the doors. The table remains untouched under the gap in the ceiling that lets in glistening motes of magic. More and more questions build in her mind; the latest was how the rooms stayed the same, yet their paths between them did not?

Nelaros leads her up the stairs, and she does not have to climb each. When they reach the plateau at the top, finally he lets her find her feet, though it is with a stumble that she does. He strides with purpose to the back wall of the plateau, to an archway she had not seen the night she had last been here; it opens up to a balcony, overlooking a serene, almost orange-haze of dawn, creeping up on the horizon of a city. She had never looked beyond the walls of this place - the windows never showed anything but a twisting blur. Was there truly a city down there?

Mythal lounges on a comfortable, plush couch overlooking the view. Her golden hair drapes, unbraided, across the back of it, brushing the floor behind her. She does not turn to look at them when they enter.

"My goddess," Nelaros bows deeply at the waist, his sharp teeth glistening as he rises. "I have brought the Waking one."

"And my Pride?" she asks, voice almost uncaring.

"I have not seen him."

She had forgotten how strangely and uncomfortably melodic Mythal's voice was. Almost like a siren, whispering and pulling at all the wrong parts of her soul. Perhaps she felt different to the ancient elves.

"Leave us, Lord Nelaros." she says in her sing-song voice, waving a hand at him. Disgruntled, realising there was no reward to being the errand boy, Nelaros snarls at her as he stalks back to the chamber and out of sight.

Uncomfortably, she waits for instruction. There is a silence between them, only permeated by the soft breeze - now, even that felt wrong. Then, Mythal beckons.

Ariwyn cautiously approaches, circles the sofa Mythal sits upon. Like she had the last time, Mythal points wordlessly to the ground before her, and Ariwyn sits, feeling like a child. Mythal's thin fingers reach up, and run from her scalp and through to the ends of her hair - it feels wrong, skeletal even.

"You have changed, my little mortal thing." Mythal says so softly she almost does not hear her. "You are no longer just what you call yourself, are you?"

Swallowing, she tries to still her racing heart. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Her fingers tighten in her hair, clenched against her scalp. It burns.

"Do not lie to me, now," the goddess almost sounds like an elder, chiding a young one. "I can see them, inside you. Like little wisps of the past, scrunched up inside an leaf in autumn. You are a poor vessel for such beings."

It is an insult she mostly understands, but she allows her confusion to get in the way of being offended. To her relief, Mythal loosens her grip.

"My Pride knows how to take care of such things." she soothes, and runs a hand flat against a head, as if undoing the damage. "I do so love being right - gifting him you was the best way to bring forth Prudence, hm?"

"What do you want with it?" she asks. At this point, curiosity can only get her into so much trouble.

Thankfully, Mythal seems happy to oblige. "Oh, that spirit has far too much knowledge hoarded all to itself. It is near, now, watching you - I only need make a sufficient trap."

Prudence is certainly no friend of hers, but - somehow it would feel wrong to allow Mythal to steal the very thing it feeds on. Giving Mythal more knowledge on a silver platter seems like a poor idea either way.

"I have a gift for you, my strange one." Mythal says, suddenly, as if remembering. She beckons a hand, and a maidservant Ariwyn had not even realised was there comes forth. In her hands she carries a tray of brilliant jewels, glistening in the morning sun in millions of gorgeous hues. She lowers the tray to Mythal, who sits and ponders over them, for a while.

Wordlessly, Mythal reaches down to Ariwyn's throat, and she tenses. However, the goddess' cold fingers merely raise the chain that lays around it, tugging the pendant up and out from under her tunic. Her heart races; she had forgotten she was even wearing it. When had it become so normal to her that she could barely feel it?

"I recognised this when I last saw you - oddly quite a while ago," Mythal gives her a smile, too sweet to be gentle. It makes her nervous. "An ancient accessory. Your Keeper gave it to you, yes?" she does not wait for her to answer. "What a shame to pass down a broken relic."

Mythal's fingers trail over the jewels in the tray, but there seems something so calculated in how she picks that it looks almost rehearsed. She selects a small golden gem, the same glinting hue of her eyes, and presses it into the gap in the centre of the pendant. It clicks in place with a small glitter of magic.

"There," she smiles again, and places the necklace down again against her chest. "A welcome home gift."

She knows, then. How, she wonders? Can Mythal tell when someone leaves Uthenera? Does she watch Solas and tracks when he comes and goes? Suddenly, a lesson her father caught her when she was young comes to mind - "It does not do well to linger on questions we cannot answer." Of course, he was talking about the mysteries of the ancient elven empire, but it at least eased her mind by forgetting it, for the moment.

Mythal's smile falls, suddenly. "There you are, my Pride."

At that, Ariwyn's heart pounds. She looks up, past Mythal; Solas stands in the doorway, only just arrived, and the dark mantle of fur around his shoulders looks particularly bristled. She cannot help but smile in relief at him.

"You may take your mortal," she waves a hand, and very quickly Ariwyn scrambles to her feet to join him. "Do take care of those she carries with her."

Solas looks mildly alarmed at Mythal's words. She does not turn to look at them, merely remains silently looking out over her city. With a little huff, Solas takes her arm, and leads her out, down the stairs, and through the halls, winding corridors and unending turns.

"Pride, I -" she begins, but he shakes his head.

"Wait until we are alone." he says, simply.

-

It takes a while to explain everything she saw to him. He tells her in turn that after she had emerged from the well, she was already dreaming; Queen Lillian had been all too eager to find her horse and ride out of the wilds as soon as possible. She is an ally, she had promised before she had left.

When she talks about what the well had shown her, she is careful about how much she speaks about Liren. Her death had been because of him - it had been years since her death, but she did not want him to suffer. She keeps it to herself, and continues to speak of what had happened at the wall, of the battle with the Forgotten Ones, the Breach, the orb.

"I can scarcely believe it." Solas admits, his fingers at his chin. "I knew I had met a very strange spirit that night, but - surely not."

"It couldn't have been me," she murmurs, "I wasn't even alive then. The well only showed me memories, didn't it?"

He frowns, contemplative. "I am not so sure, now. That night, the spell was finished but not by me - the foci orb was destroyed when I found it. But that spirit-" he shakes his head, "-you did it, Ariwyn."

Uncertain, she glances down at her hand, where her fingers had grazed the burning magic of the orb, where her palm had grasped for it. For a moment, she sees a mark, deep in her flesh, pulsing with the same green light of the Breach. Then, when she blinks, it is gone.

Shaking her head, she takes a deep breath. Tries to get her mind in order. There is too much to talk about.

"The well did it, regardless," she says, giving her shoulders a small shrug, "It's strange - I can still feel them there just clustered in my head, but they're not bothering me."

Solas too shrugs. "Perhaps they simply enjoy the company after being trapped with Prudence for so long." then, he blinks, and looks horrified. "We must free Wisdom! By the heavens I completely forgot!"

Wisdom huffs, as if it insulted it took them that long to remember it. She would be too, she supposes, though it felt like they had more important things to discuss.

"Here, Ariwyn, come," Solas beckons her forward, and his gentle touch presses into her shoulders, lowers her to her knees. He joins her, though even on his knees he is still much taller than her. His slender fingers come up, feathery light across her brow, tracing as if looking, searching. His touch is surprisingly comforting - between them it had always been her to touch him, until now. Then, she shoots her eyes shut as a searing pain wracks from one temple to the other, like someone had hit her over the head.

His arm catches her when she cannot sit upright, but his free hand remains at her head. Slowly, he draws it back, a wisp of green magic in its wake; when she blinks her eyes and her vision clears, it is Wisdom, she realises, seeping out from her skin, her eyes, her mouth agape in shock. It feels vaguely uncomfortable as the spirit slips down her body and only the floor, pooling with each part of itself that leaves her. When there is nothing left, Wisdom rises, barely visible in the light.

"You must rest, my friend," Solas says gently, reaches a hand out to the spirit which goes right through it. "Such a long time spent in the Waking world, you must gather your strength."

"Do not fret over me," Wisdom says dismissively, drifting soundlessly through the space, out towards the window. "I fear the mortal will be worse off without me."

Ariwyn cannot even will the strength to be insulted. She feels lethargic, dazed; Solas still holds her, and she is limp in his arms.

As Wisdom disappears out of the open window, Solas sighs. "I see." he murmurs, as he makes a move to lift her. "Wisdom was giving you its strength; it is not a wonder it looked so pale. Both of you must rest."

He follows to where the spirit had gone, setting her down comfortable in the window seat. The air is enjoyable, warm but with a cool breeze drifting in through the window, beyond which the world churns in an undesirable haze of colour. As he lays a thin blanket atop her, she lifts a hand, scrambles weakly for purchase in his tunic.

"Do not leave me." she requests, quietly. For as strong as she felt, perhaps she should have let Wisdom stay to scold her into leaving him be.

He squeezes her hand, gives her a smile - he looks amused, almost teasing. "Do not fear, I will not be far."

Wordlessly, she releases him, and curls in on herself. She has always slept like this, on her side with her legs and arms tucked up against her body - like a cat, her father had often said when she was young. The thought of him suddenly hurts, as if his years of dismissal had been undone. She misses him. How can she miss someone so harsh and cold?

It does not matter; here, she has Solas. Mythal has the arrogance to call him hers. As she drifts off to sleep, the only thing on her mind is how very much she would like to tell Mythal she is wrong. She imagines a day on which Solas might let her call him something else; " _My Pride_."

 


	23. Chapter 23

She walks with Solas. It is quiet around them, and no one is in sight. They walk and walk, and he seems to have adjusted to the changes to the locations of everything already. She asks him, why it has changed in the first place. "'Tis the manner of the Fade," he says, "Nothing can be controlled, not fully." He asks if she has any other questions, while they have time to talk.

 

"Talking would be nice." Ariwyn admits, albeit bashfully. He sends a soft smile her way, and directs her out into the garden they've passed - the Guardian's, she realises, as there is a small ripple, and a pop as they enter. For a while, they don't talk, and walk in a comfortable silence through the trees and foliage, loose twigs and old leaves crunching under their steps together. After a while, they approach the sound of a stream, which rushes along a shallow creek. They find it, and it is far more natural than she would have expected, as if nature itself had formed it, not magic. She touches it, and it is cool.

 

With half-lidded eyes, she lazes across it, and sees the flickering of warm light behind trees beyond. If she squints, she recognises the shadows cast onto the trees; aravels, baring the masterwork paint of clan Lavellan's craftsmen and women. She can hear talking, faintly.

 

"Why here?" she asks, rising back to her feet beside Solas.

 

He places a foot expertly on a raised stone buried in the creek, and steps down over the other side. He offers her a hand, which she takes. "Your clan is familiar." he says, simply, as she steps to the bank, "It will always be important to you."

 

Distantly, she looks at the camp between the trees. Strangely, it does little to interest her; there isn't the same innate pull to go there anymore. She doesn't feel scared in the darkness. She supposes she shouldn't, not when the creature that caused her the most fear is now stood beside her, guiding her.

 

"We've talked about my clan before, Pride." she huffs, but nevertheless follows him when he heads towards it. "Can we talk about you? What happened that night that the well showed?"

 

They step between the trees, and Solas seems mildly curious to observe the members of her clan go about their business. No one reacts to their presence; it feels distant, almost like watching a memory. They travel through the camp, and finally he chooses to stop at where the Keeper would sit around a campfire and speak to the children. He finds a log a hunter had dragged in, and sits.

 

"What do you want to know?" he asks, as she takes a seat next to him. He relaxes, settles his back against the aravel behind him, closes his eyes - he looks more at ease than she has ever seen him.

 

Confused, she thinks of a place to start. "What even happened?" she asks, twisting her fingers together, "I thought humans caused Arlathan's fall, but the Forgotten Ones were there too - was that why you created the Veil?"

 

Despite their mention, he does not tense. Instead, his eyes open, and he stares into the flickering embers of the fire. "It had been planned for a time. It was our - alternate plan of action, the Evanuris did not approve as it did not result in the death of their enemies." Solas seems frustrated, but sighs, and shrugs it off. "We did not expect the human hordes to charge our doorstep. We were unprepared, our armies beyond Eluvians already shattered. I did what I had to."

 

"How did you even manage it?" Ariwyn breathes in disbelief. It is a struggle to imagine how immense a spell like that would be, how much it would take of a person. She knew Solas was powerful, but a spell like that would cost hundreds of lives in blood magic, in her world, if not thousands.

 

"Trial and error, mostly," there is a sadness in his eyes now, remorse; regret. "There were... Sacrifices. I am not proud of what I have done but a handful of spirits versus the survival of the People?" he sighs again. "I told myself: one more attempt at creating the Veil. I had tried and failed, too many times. I would not fail the People when it mattered most- the Forgotten Ones bested me." Solas pauses, and his eyes drift to her. "And then-"

 

He does not finish. There is some sort of recognition on his face, as if he has pieced together a puzzle of sorts. He smiles, satisfied.

 

"You held the key to our salvation. You finished what I could not - and right then, I felt the whole world change."

 

A warmth blossoms in her chest the longer he looks at her. Unable to hold his gaze, she ducks her head, hiding behind loose strands of dark hair - she thinks they are sat too close to the flames, she feels far too hot. Perhaps she ought to move. But that would mean moving _away_ from him.

 

Bashful, she smiles. "Felt the whole world change?" she murmurs, uncertain. Mostly, she wants him to say it again, for her own satisfaction, but also because she is worried she misheard.

 

Something between a snort and a chuckle leaves him. "A figure of speech," he says, "Though I suppose it did, in reality."

 

"I suppose it did," she pretends to sound thoughtful, as if debating the practicality of his words. Truly, she is too caught up on the possibility of what he meant that she cannot. Quietly, she admits, "Though, I'm more interested in _felt_."

 

For a moment he does not speak. She waits, in quiet. Is there a chance he misspoke? She is foolish for hope, he is probably thinking of how to undo that he has started in her mind. Then, she blinks in surprise, as his deft fingers tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. They slide down to her chin, and flick it upwards to see his eyes staring back at her. Dark yet so soft.

 

"You change..." he pauses, voice breathy and quiet. She does not realise she waits with her own breath bated. "Everything."

 

He is so close. His touch, though so brief, felt so wonderful. She craves for it back, the same gentle breeze of his fingers over her skin. Mayhap he is unaware of what he does to her, what effect he has. Her gaze flutters down to his lips, and when they quirk up into the tiniest of smirks, she realises that he is _definitely_ aware. Very much so.

 

"Everything?" she repeats in a whisper, a little dazed. Perhaps holding her breath had not been the best of ideas.

 

There is a moment, where in the warm light of the crackling campfire, they simply gaze at one another. She realises something she never has before; when he looks at her so, she feels like something else, something beautiful, something fascinating. She had felt like an oddity before around the other ancient elves, but with Solas - with him she felt wanted. Special, even. Not weird, or strange.

 

She cannot help it. The little nerve she has worked up goes into leaning forwards to him, closing her eyes as she feels his breath fan her face in a stuttered gasp of surprise. It is almost funny - how had he not been expecting it? It does not stay on her mind for long, as her lips press once, softly against his. She pulls back a little, nervous, inexperienced. What if he thinks her foolish? She cannot claim to know how men like to be kissed.

 

He pushes back, up against her. It is her turn to be surprised, for all her doubt she did not expect a return. Her heart pounds in her chest, her mind spins - as his lips brushes hers with a softness and patience she did not expect, his hands move to embrace her, tug her close. His palm flattens against her back, and fingers curl into her clothes. There is a serenity to kissing she did not expect; perhaps it comes with him, as gentle as he is. He is warm, breath soft against her when he breaks apart a moment, gazes at her with a look that she thinks should worry her, if not for the dizzy euphoria she is lost in.

 

"We shouldn't." Solas says, suddenly. His arms detangle from where he had wound around her, and he tries to move, but her hands stay latched to his shoulders. He looks conflicted as he looks back at her. Slowly, he shakes his head. "It isn't right. Not even here."

 

Something in that clicks. "What do you mean, _not even here_?" too much confusion shows in her face - she feels all the more silly for it.

 

He frowns back, as if surprised. "Where did you think we were?"

 

Her hands slowly loosen on where she holds him, and she looks around, distances herself a little. She doesn't really feel dizzy, anymore.

 

"This isn't real." even she can hear her own disappointment. She can't look at him. Too hot, too flustered, and now confused, hurt even. Was she that bad? Maybe if she tells him she had never kissed before, he would change his mind. But she does not want to look more foolish than she already does.

 

"That is a matter for debate," he says, and there is a playfulness to his tone that only confuses her further. She feels a hand settle on her shoulder, and shudders when he comes close, breath tickling her ear. "A debate perhaps better discussed after you... Wake up?"

 

-

 

Her heart races as she leaps up from her sleep. Unbalanced, she shrieks, tumbles from the window seat and collapses in a heap of pillows and a thin blanket. She does not move. Instead, she hides in her mess, breathes for a while. Was any of that real? Solas had visited her in dreams many times before, but - she shakes her head. She is so confused, and somewhat upset. He was so gentle and patient, but immediately sounded regretful. There is more to this, and it frustrates her why he didn't just explain.

 

Eventually, she gets up. She calls out to Solas, once, twice - he is not here. Calmly, she places the pillows back in some sort of decorative order on the window seat, folds the blanket neatly. She wonders where he got this from; he keeps blankets in his study? Maybe he sleeps here sometimes.

 

She wants to speak to him, but either he is avoiding her or simply nowhere to be found. For a while she wanders, through unfamiliar halls bathed in afternoon sun, listening for signs of life. Occasionally, she passes someone, but remembers from their pointed glares that she should not try to speak with them. It is so frustrating, she thinks, that these so-called powerful mages cannot keep their own world the same way.

 

Something here feels familiar. Strangely, she cannot place it - this hallway looks exactly like the last, tall-walled and shiny floored that moves if she looks at it for too long. Still, she stops, and looks around more. Barely a second after she stops moving, she hears a voice.

 

"Boo!"

 

Despite how simple the scare is, she still jumps. A haze of glowing green leaps out of the wall before her, and thuds gently into her chest. Scrambling, she catches the thing in her arms, and it very nearly slips through - a visit to the well is overdue for this one again, she thinks.

 

"I missed you, Benevolence," Ariwyn heaves a sigh of relief as the spirit curls up against her, practically humming with warmth.

 

"And I you," the spirit's eye squints, and she thinks if it had a mouth, it would be smiling. "I missed you so much - where did you go? I was worried for you, Prudence refused to tell me anything."

 

A wave of guilt washes over her. Solas had not told Benevolence what had happened - for the spirit, she had been gone a handful of sunrises and sunsets, maybe, for which time fluctuated anyway. Still, for a creature who had lived in a world like this for so long, perhaps her absence hit harder. For her, the days she had spent in her own world had been long enough for her to think perhaps she imagined this one.

 

"I went to find a fix," she says, simply. Perhaps its childish nature is what encourages her to avoid detailing it all. "Whatever Prudence gave me is gone - or at least, quiet now."

 

The spirit morphs, leans back from her, studies her with an unblinking eye. Its head - or at least, what she thinks is its head - tilts sideways.

 

"No more pain, but I _see_ them." it says, decisively. "They are still with you. Just waiting, watching. They want to help."

 

There is some relief in that. Prudence had promised help, initially - perhaps this is what the spirit intended. Or, perhaps it merely tricked her and expected her to suffer with raging lost souls for eternity. She does not care, for she has learned her lesson. She refuses to allow Prudence the better of her again. 

 

Benevolence's eye squints again. It doesn't feel happy now, though; more like concerned. She feel feel the spirit through its contact, strangely know how it feels. Magic, she supposes, it has been so long.

 

"You are sad." it declares, though its mood shifts to reflect hers. It sighs with her. "You must speak with him. He did not mean to upset you, I am sure."

 

She wants to, so badly. Even if nothing comes from talking with him, there is some part of her that wants him to know how she feels, even if she comes out of it looking stupid.

 

The spirit wriggles, and drifts to the floor below, "First though - food!"

 

The idea is strange, but she supposes it is right. Perhaps despite the food being illusion, it helps sustain her body in reality. At least, she hopes - some of the bodies they passed in slumber looked like corpses.

 

She follows Benevolence on a path that is faintly familiar. Trying to remember it is hopeless, though; she has already forgotten the way to where she met the spirit. Eventually, she hears noise - the distant babble of talk, silverware meeting dishes, glasses clinking. Benevolence skitters ahead and disappears into the doorway before she can even keep up.

 

Sighing, she picks up her pace, rounds the corner and then - someone blindly stumbles back into her, the stack dishes in their hands flying into the air. She barely steadies herself before her hands shoot out to catch the elf with a shocking lack of grace. There is such a loud clatter as the plates hit the ground with such force that she thinks they're made of stone - they don't even shatter.

 

The dining hall goes silent, but she tries to pay it no mind; especially when the elf now hurriedly straightening herself is flushed, and very uncomfortable.

 

"I am so sorry," she says, in struggled, stuttering elvish. She looks up at her, and blinks, "Hey, I know you!" she speaks common now, sounding both relieved and a little horrified.

 

It takes a second or the recognition to kick in, but Ariwyn does know the woman before her. Or at least, she knows her face - tall and slender, not nearly as much as those of the ancient elves, but tall for an elf of her world. Her head, once shaven, is now fuzzy with short, dark hair growing back.

 

"You're the one I met," Ariwyn murmurs in surprise, in the same tongue, "When we first came here. I'm Ariwyn - it's good to see you're well."

 

The woman offers a small smile. "Kallian," she says, and offers a hand to shake. "Tabris that is. Kallian Tabris. Maybe you've heard of my family?"

 

She frowns, shakes her head. "Can't say I have."

 

Kallian is disappointed at this. "Oh. I thought even the Dalish might of known about us. My family is-"

 

A loud cough comes from before them. Startled, Kallian jumps, spins on the spot and looks a little shaky at the reminder of reality. An elf, stands displeased a few feet away across the mess of plates, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His teeth are very clearly being ground together, almost threateningly.

 

"Pathetic Waking ones, can't even do their jobs without making a mess. Clean it!" he barks, and Kallian is very quick to drop to the floor and begin stacking up plates.

 

He continues to glare until Ariwyn stops looking at him to help. Perhaps he still glares, but she does not care to look. She collects three plates, adds them to Kallian's stack. As she reaches for the last one near her, a hand swoops in and plucks if from her grasp. She straightens up, and sees the grinning face of a familiar elf.

 

"Hello, young one." Feyrion greets, as he tosses the plate to Tabris' pile. It lands expertly atop it with a slight wobble. He turns to the disgruntled elf still watching in disgust, and says, "I'll take care of this, friend. Off you go now."

 

"Are you shooing me?" his voice reaches a new, higher peak. Suddenly he is less intimidating.

 

Feyrion pretends to be as taken aback. "Are _you_ shooing me?"

 

"What? I - oh, you're wasting my time! Move!"

 

With a cry of frustration, the stranger bustles past them in a hurry. Feyrion snickers, far too amused by his own antics. He waves a hand, and any messes that had tipped off plates soak into the ground, stopping Kallian in her tracks. She does not seem upset by his intervention though.

 

"You've changed!" Feyrion blurts suddenly when he turns back to her. His fingers poke and prod at her cheeks. "You feel more... I don't know, like me?"

 

Uncertain, Ariwyn frowns. "That's a... Good thing, yes?"

 

With a false gasp of offence, he presses a hand to his chest. "Of course it is!" then, he shrugs it off, and adds, "But it is good. I don't know what you did, but you feel less - hm, less distant."

 

"How so?"

 

"Well we were born in different times, different worlds almost. My world worked on magic, we share our feelings and our magics with the world, where as your people don't. Take this Waking one for example-" he gestures to Kallian, who stands with a stack of plates far too high. "-She feels hollow to me. Nothing comes from her. You, on the other hand; I can feel some vague sense of your mood, your feelings."

 

That's why Benevolence felt strange, earlier - she shared what she felt with it, and it back. She supposes it's nothing new for a spirit to sense the feelings of people, but being able to know its feelings back is different. Now that she concentrates, she can understand - from Feyrion there is some sort of thin radiance of confusion, layered with wonder, and he thinks something is vaguely funny. Around the room, there is a hub of _things_ , twisting together to form a bubble of activity and life. There are too many people to separate them, but the world feels a lot less distant than it had ever before.

 

"Aha she sees it!" he declares proudly, giving her some hearty applause. "You feel like less of a sore thumb sticking up now. Come, let's eat."

 

She turns to look, but Kallian has already scattered off. There is some guilt in that; she had been so preoccupied listening to Feyrion and the emotions in the room that she had forgotten her. Still, she does not have long to dwell on it, for he grabs her arm and tugs her to an empty spot on the nearest table.

 

"You were gone a little while," he says, once they begin to eat, "I was worried the wolf had eaten you."

 

Ariwyn lets out a huff. "Does everyone know I was gone?"

 

"Anyone paying enough attention."

 

She supposes it was worse for Mythal to know she was gone - she does, so there's no use worrying. Shrugging, she digs into the bread roll in her hand. Admittedly, she had missed these.

 

"Did anything else change while I was gone?"

 

Feyrion chuckles. "You mean apart from the entire realm turning upside down on its head again and the Evanuris don't care?" at her frown, he continues. "Well surely you noticed how everything's different; places aren't where they used to, new ones exist where they didn't. It happens, every so often. In the past, the Evanuris would attempt to right it, but they don't seem to care anymore."

 

"Strange."

 

If the world she lived in was constantly changing and she had some way to maintain a semblance of normality, she would use it. The pantheon had a plan of sorts. Maybe letting their realms fall into disrepair was part of it? She'd have to ask Solas his thoughts.

 

"Not much happened, to be honest." Feyrion adds. "There are whispers that Elgar'nan paid Mythal a visit and those who have chambers hear hers couldn't sleep for the noise."

 

She makes a sound to imitate vomiting, and he laughs. Still, she would've liked to see the God of vengeance for herself. Not while he was with Mythal, of course. She shudders at the thought.

 

Curiously, she glances about the room. Up at the far end, where the lords and ladies sit, Solas has a seat. He is talking with another member of the council in what looks to be merely polite conversation, yet if she knows anything about him, it's when he looks distracted. Now is one of those occasions.

 

"Excuse me, Feyrion. It was good catching up," she rises from the table, offers him a smile.

 

He snorts. "If you call gossiping about our gods' sex lives catching up, sure. See you, friend."

 

As she begins away, she vaguely realises what he'd just called her. None here but Solas had - and she wasn't sure if it was to stay that way with him for better or worse. It warmed her heart a little, made her feel almost welcome.

 

Ariwyn approaches the high table, ignoring the sideways glares the lady Solas is speaking with sends her way. Uncertain, she stops before it, waits until he is done talking - she catches something about a meeting, but that is all. When the lady does not respond, Solas follows her gaze, and seems almost surprised to see her.

 

"May I speak with you?" Ariwyn asks, politely. Quickly, she adds, "Master."

 

He thinks on it, for a moment. He seems hesitant, but continuing his conversation with the lady beside him does not seem to interest him enough to lie. Rising from his seat, Solas nods.

 

"Certainly. Excuse me."

 

The two walk out of the hall, and she has some idea of where they go. She feels a sudden wash of déjà vu as they head out into the Guardian's garden, and there is a soft pop, and there is no more sound from inside, only the quiet tweeting of distant birds and the breeze. They do not continue through the trees to miraculously find her clan, however. That should have been a clear indicator she was dreaming and yet, it did not cross her mind.

 

Eventually, he stops. They are in a quiet enough clearing, surrounded by hedges that feel like they are enclosing them in private.

 

"Sleep well?" he asks. It is mostly polite, but she can hear some form of teasing tone underneath. He keeps his back to her, curiously picking at flowers on a nearby bush.

 

Flustered, she paces, and the soft ground makes her feet thud very lightly against it. At a loss, she huffs a little, and says, "I have never done anything like that before." she means the dream - it had felt so different to any they have shared before. And yet, "On a number of levels," she adds shyly. She can still taste his lips.

 

Solas chuckles a little, and gives her a warm smile. Then, when his laughter stops, he turns his head, straightens his shoulders. "I apologise. The kiss was... Impulsive, and ill considered. I should not have encouraged it."

 

That was the response she had hoped would not leave his lips. Her heart knots up and squeezes tight, but she tries to reign in her disappointment. If he can feel how she does, then...

 

"Pride, I," she bites her lip. "I'm sorry. I thought that we... Well, I feel for you. I thought maybe you did too. If I misread, I apologise."

 

Subtly, she pushes out. She can feel him, and it almost feels uncomfortable to be sharing his - he is conflicted, more twisted up inside than she. Quickly, she pulls back, and winds her arms around herself. Suddenly she feels more doubtful than she was of herself earlier.

 

"No," he shakes his head, steps a little forward. There is only a small distance between them, now. "You have no need to apologise. I - it's simply been a long time. Things have aways been easier for me in the Fade."

 

She nods, tries to seem understanding. Perhaps knowing it is a simply a dream can give one more confidence. But when a dream is shared between two, how can one pretend it was simply bravado?

 

Solas sighs. "I am not certain this is the best idea." he admits, but his eyes tell her a different story - as if he remembers their kiss as vividly as she does. "It could lead to trouble."

 

 _Could_. Is he offering her options? Run and forget, bury her feelings - or, test the waters, see what happens? She knows what she would rather pick, and hopes the part of him that offered her a way in feels the same.

 

"I'm willing to take the chance of trouble," she murmurs, and smiles a little. Even just a little hope is enough. "If you are, that is."

 

He pauses. As if he didn't expect her to say yes despite the warning. Then, he frowns, takes a step away.

 

"I may be, yes." he folds his arms behind his back, takes a few steps and stops himself before he begins pacing. "If I could take some time, to think. There are... Considerations."

 

Curious, she echoes, "Considerations?"

 

"This world is not your own. If we were to- well, there would be talk. Gossip. The assumption of a relationship between master and servant is always..." he stops, sighs, and says it regardless, "Sexual in nature. If you do not wish to be regarded that way then we must be careful. Among other things."

 

Her face feels hot. "Oh. I see." she fumbles with her hands, looks away bashfully. "Well, take all the time you need."

 

"Thank you." he sounds a little relieved, and his stiff posture relaxes. "I am not often thrown by things that happen in dreams. But I am reasonably certain we are awake now, at least to an extent. If you wish to discuss anything, I would enjoy talking."

 

She smiles, and feels her heart tighten in a more pleasant way as she gets one in return. Then, a more pressing matter returns to her attention, one she had almost forgotten about among everything.

 

"Pride, I have to ask," she begins, and hates herself for ruining a moment. "What did you see in the Well of Sorrows?"


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another slightly shorter one, but it ends where I wanted it to so oh well.

"The well showed me what the Queen has given to it." Solas does in fact begin to pace, from hedge to hedge in their small private place. "I wished to see if I would recognise anything in the Archdemon she had battled - perhaps something that could provide a link to the Forgotten Ones."

 

"I saw them," she murmurs, and shudders at the memory of the creatures, the murderer of Liren, the one Solas so bravely battled atop the wall. "They truly seem evil."

 

He hums. "Indeed, they are. When I looked into the Queen's eyes at this Archdemon, I saw the same malice, the same twisted hatred. It was... Mostly useless information." his shoulders slump a little. "But they bear the same energy, some thin thread tying the two together. I would like to look into how they are connected but I do not see how."

 

"Queen Lillian said she is an ally, did she not?" she offers, trying to prove helpful. "Perhaps we can go back, visit her, find out more."

 

"I am afraid that it would not yield much if we have already seen her memories themselves." Solas closes his eyes, thinks. It is quiet, for a moment. "I saw much - she was focused, but not enough. I had to sift through her personal memories to see anything of importance to us; I am sure she would prefer me not to remember those. Regardless, I know as much history of the Darkspawn as she could remember."

 

"And does anything stick out?"

 

"Very little. Their earliest origins may be worth further investigation, however. Perhaps we might retain records of our own."

 

Straightening, she sends him a smile. "Then we will look."

 

He returns her smile, though again, he looks distracted. She is desperate to hear his thoughts, to hear some further discussion on their kiss - she could endlessly replay it in her mind and yet want for more. Still, he keeps tight lipped. Patience, she reminds herself; to him, even a day or two of consideration is still a very short time. It had barely been minutes.

 

Trying to change her thoughts, Ariwyn asks, "What should I do?"

 

"Hm?" he frowns at her, "What do you mean?"

 

"Well, when we were in my- the Waking world, we had a goal. Now that we're back to infinite time on our hands, I don't know what to do."

 

Solas lets out a light chuckle. "I may be your master officially, but I will not give you orders so soon after a return. Enjoy the day as your own. If I have need of you I will send Benevolence."

 

"That still doesn't give me an idea of what I should be doing."

 

His eyes flash, as if with a sudden thought. He smiles, almost in a grin of glee. "Perhaps ask that friend of yours who spends his time drinking and dancing-"

 

"Feyrion?"

 

"-Yes, him." he looks displeased at his mention, but it does not stop his mischievous disposition. "Ask him to instruct you in formal dance. It may come in useful."

 

And with that, he takes off through the garden with long strides that make him disappear so quickly she barely has time to question him. _Formal dance_?

 

-

 

So she does. Feyrion tells her she is a quick learner, aster than any he has taught before. Apparently he often teaches other elves the steps of various traditional dances; when she prods, he reveals he has knowledge of ritual dancing, celebration, spiritual. But of course, the most important: formal.

 

"Why do you wish to learn?" he asks, as he sips from a leather flask he had buried in his pocket. His puffy sleeves are folded and rolled up at the elbows, and his hair is slightly disheveled from their dancing.

 

She does not admit to him it is because of Solas. Her expression of interest towards all of his dancing expertise had thrown him off, and he had offered to teach her all of it. Of course, she would love to, but following his specific request felt more important. Maybe whatever it was for would bring them closer.

 

Ariwyn couldn't admit her thoughts lately focused solely on one person who spent his nights in her dreams, not aloud, at least.

 

"Just because," she says instead, and shrugs. She tries to stay nonchalant. "I have forever on my hands, I might as well use it to learn."

 

He grins. "You're my kind of person, young one!"

 

At least she made her lie convincing. Unfortunately, because Feyrion truly believes in the idea of forever, his lessons do not go for long each day. An hour or two here, an afternoon there. Most times he even distracts himself by telling her fanciful tales, or dancing with spirits in movements that are more like the ones they performed together when very drunk that night so many weeks ago. He sings while they dance - after a while, she finds herself joining him.

 

"Your voice is strange," Feyrion notes one afternoon, waving a hand. She watches him perform a few steps of the beginning of one of the many different formal dances; he elegantly takes a wide step with one leg straight, bends at the waist and draws a hand to his chest before extending it out before him; to her.

 

"How so?" she tries not to sound very offended. She press her palm flat to his, steps a stride to reach him like they have practised before, and backs up again around his foot to allow him to straighten, all the while keeping her hand to his.

 

He shrugs, a move not required by the dance. "It's familiar." he hums as he circles her, an arm's length away, and she releases his hand to spin away, re-offering it when he closes the new gap between them. "Also it sounds weird - like when spirits speak, they have almost an echo? You sound a bit like that."

 

Suddenly self-conscious about her voice, she does not sing for a while. In the back of her mind, she hears a soft, mischievous giggle; Liren, she realises. Perhaps she had joined their voices together without even realising.

 

"Do not be put off, young one," Feyrion chuckles, suddenly, "I meant no insult. You are a talented singer, it is just interesting to hear from a mortal."

 

They skip the next part of the dance; not enough space, Feyrion had said. Their joined hands were to remain flat together, and they should walk in even pace until they stand where the hypothetical pair before them last stood. If they were to follow the right steps, they would find themselves crashing into a wall.

 

"Feyrion, did you live in Arlathan?" she asks, curious. They turn after just one step in line with one another, to face each other.

 

"I did, yes- left foot, young one, if you had been a few inches further you would've crushed my toes." he laughs her horrified expression off, and they resume the steps, slower this time. They spin together, each foot taking steps like clock hands, their palms still flush.

 

"Did you ever meet a lady named Liren?"

 

At the mention of her name, the elven soul stirs. Strangely, she can picture it, as if her and Feyrion dance beneath an open window Liren early leans out of to eavesdrop. There is a quiet humming at the back of her mind.

 

Feyrion grins. "What a wonderful performer she was! I envied her skill at musical craft - so so talented, and beautiful too. It is not a wonder she enchanted so many."

 

 _Including Pride_ , she almost huffs.

 

"It was truly terrible to lose Arlathan, but Liren was one of the many that defined our great empire for its true beauties," he sighs, and he looks distracted - mind buried in his memories, in a distant past. "Your master has mentioned her, then?"

 

"In a fashion." she says, awkwardly. She almost forgets they are dancing until his hands push at her, separating them a few feet - she stumbles over her feet, and he insists they do it again. "Were they very close?"

 

He snorts. "As close as one can be to the great Liren." he sighs, "For all her virtues, I heard that she was one of the most indecisive elves to ever live. There was often whispers of messy scandal between her, your wolf and one of Mythal's greatest sentinels. It was rather embarrassing, if you ask me. She wedged herself between two friends and insisted they remain as close."

 

Liren still listens. It makes Ariwyn a little uncomfortable, by how silently she takes the criticism.

 

"What happened to them?" she wonders.

 

Feyrion releases one of her hands, and as instructed, she steps back with one foot, throws out her spare arm behind, before he pulls her back, quickly. Their hands rejoin, in a bit of a stumble, and they repeat the movement with her other side, except he does not take her hand again.

 

"Now, the next part is more... Intimate?" he warns, and beckons her closer. "If you are uncomfortable, tell me and I can demonstrate with a spirit."

 

She nods, as he takes her left hand, places it on where his shoulder joins his throat. Her body is turned half away from him, her shoulder hitting his. The arm from the same shoulder curls around, hand at the hip furthest from him. Their other hands are free, he says.

 

"Hand placement is vital," he tells her, gesturing to where her hand rests against him. "Too low, and it shows you lack trust in your partner." he slides her hand to settle atop his shoulder, to demonstrate. "Too high-" he shuffles her hand up to under his jaw, "-and it may look very romantic, or on the opposite end of the spectrum, threatening."

 

She snorts.

 

He smiles back. "Same for where your partner holds you," his hand does not move to demonstrate this. "Too low and it is, uhm... Risqué, inappropriate for a ballroom. Too high and it looks coddling, like one might expect their partner to slip. There is a balance in formal dancing that is as important as balance may be on a battlefield - have it equal and you will perform perfectly. Anything off, and you may be a scandal of the evening."

 

"That's not at all intimidating."

 

Feyrion laughs, and nods. "Having eternity to ourselves makes us very picky dancers." he says, before he slowly begins to move. "In a circle, like before - slow steps, that's the way. Too fast and your partner's steps will get thrown off, too slow and- well, same thing, really."

 

Eventually, Ariwyn gets it. After spinning once, twice - she loses count - Feyrion very carefully and helpfully goes through instructing how she might detangle herself from her partner for the next steps. A few times he goes through it, before she is able to replicate it in one fluid motion; their hands slip away from one another, they step apart and twist; then, come back together, hands opposite to the ones last used to go palm-to-palm once more; their free arms fold against their backs, mirroring one another. They step in, out, in, and our again, with measured strides.

 

"Again, this is a chance for misinterpretation," he adds, holding out his free hand to give her a rough guide on where to stop when she steps back in to him. "Go further than this and it will appear far more intimate than you most likely intend. Do not step less than this however, for the gap will be too wide and it'll just look silly. Step short again - yes, see how our arms stretch too far to stay connected? Our elbows should always be simply a little bent. Like this..."

 

His instruction goes on like this for a while. This dance lasts a while, but his knowledge mixed with his humorous quips from time to time makes learning it last less time. There is not much more to the steps; after what feels like the hundredth step in to ensure she knows how to gauge a good distance, he twists his hand, and he explains it in good detail in how she should move hers so that his will end in holding hers upright. After that, they step back, and allow their contact to break, and bow.

 

"I somehow did not expect ancient elven formal dances to be so..." she struggles for words, and in the end, laughs. "I don't know, they involve a lot of hands touching hands?"

 

He shrugs. "Most parties begin civil, polite - these dances match up, so minimal contact is used. By the time everyone has had a drink, the more exciting dances come out," he winks, and she laughs again.

 

"You say that, except the very dance you just performed had many opportunities for proper misconduct." comes a voice from near the window.

 

She jumps. Looking over, as does Feyrion, she sees the faint, glowing form of an owl, perched on the sill of the open window. Despite having the spirit in her mind for so long, she had almost forgotten what its true form looked like.

 

"Wisdom." Ariwyn greets, politely, with a bow of her head.

 

"Huh, I didn't think you hung around us living beings anymore, o'great wisdom!" Feyrion says, and gives it a bow so heavily soaked in sarcasm she is surprised he is able to rise afterwards.

 

If a spirit could look irritated, Wisdom does. It does not pay him any mind, however.

 

"Mortal, my friend needs your help." it says, shuffling its shoulders - its feathers ruffle with green light.

 

"Pride? Is he alright?" she asks quickly. Despite Wisdom's frequent monotony, there is a strange urgency to how it speaks.

 

Its eyes narrow. "It suffers from an opposite ailment of yours; instead of an ability to sleep, it seems he cannot wake."

 

She looks at Feyrion, and he shrugs with an utterly blank expression. With a breath, she stills herself, wills herself to calm. Surely it is not truly a problem - maybe he is just travelling between realms as he is supposed to. But if Wisdom cannot get his attention... What if he is in danger?

 

"Go to him, young one," Feyrion waves a hand at her, in the direction of the door. "Master calls."

 

"Thank you, Feyrion. Your lessons are very helpful." she very quickly gathers up the books he had suggested to her - about various dancing techniques - and stacks them in her arms. There is a gust of wind as Wisdom unfurls its wings and takes off out of the window.

 

Just as she reaches the door, she hears Feyrion call her. Abruptly, she turns, looks to him. There is somewhat of a conflicted expression on him, as his hands twist up in his sleeves, arms folded across his chest.

 

"You asked earlier what had happened to Liren's lovers," he says, and sighs. "Your master is the only one left. The night Arlathan fell, as did she, and the sentinel. It is not something he takes kindly to being reminded of - I did not tell you so you would not put yourself in the way of his wrath by accident."

 

He misunderstands the relationship between her and Solas, she realises. A relationship between master and servant is not always as friendly as them. Still, she appreciates his gesture.

 

"Thank you, Feyrion," she bows her head.

 

As she leaves, she allows the confusion to spread to her face. The sentinel - dead?

 

Then who was Abelas?

 


	25. Chapter 25

Wisdom guides her. The spirit moves fast; she sprints through the halls after it, sees the shadow on the walls as it blots out the sun outside. If she worries she loses her way, it calls, a soft, "Hoo," echoing through the thin windows. The elves she pass give her the most curious looks, but none stop her.

 

The spirit disappears. Ariwyn dashes to the window, manages to squeeze through it far enough to see; it feels like she has popped through a bubble, some sort of ward - beyond the world twists and morphs even more than from the inside, and it almost makes her sick. Still, she can see the vague shapes of a tower, around which a haze of green disappears and morphs into the shifting world beyond.

 

She follows the halls until she comes upon a door. It is heavy, ornate, adorned with similar mosaic patterns she had the luck to find in ancient ruins in her world. The surface of the shimmering golds and silvers glimmers with a thin film of magic. For a moment, she stays, regards the door in curiosity; she has been able to decipher them before. It does not take her long for this, as the shapes make such an obvious shadow of a distinct figure she recognises him quickly. The door portrays Fen'Harel.

 

"A bit in the nose," she murmurs, but cautiously reaches outward, tests the ward on the door with outstretched fingers. When nothing happens upon her touch, she flattens her palm against it, pushes - it comes open almost immediately, and the ward parts like water waving from the centre point of where she touched. She steps though, and it closes behind her, and the doors clang shut.

 

She heaves a breath, struggling to catch it after chasing Wisdom so swiftly. Looking around the dimly lit hallway, there is only one path - up a wide, winding staircase. Ariwyn groans.

 

"He trusts you." comes Wisdom's voice from where it is perched, a few stairs up. Its glow looks almost sickly in the dark. "Convenient, as the door would not open otherwise. Come."

 

Something in Wisdom's words tugs at her heart as she begins up the staircase, following the spirit who soars above and ahead. Magic is the purest and simplest show of one's truest feelings; clearly Solas does not trust many in this place to ward his own chambers. And that his magic simply allows her through, when he had never even shared the location of his chambers with her? He truly does have faith in her. With him, she feels a part of the People.

 

She feels special.

 

"He truly lives up here?" Ariwyn huffs for breath, after climbing what feels like a million stairs. "It's not a wonder he had blankets in his study."

 

Wisdom ignores her. It is not a surprise; even when they shared headspace the spirit only answered her when it liked, and sometimes even when she didn't want it to. Still, she would think after an experience like that they could be closer.

 

Finally, the stairs end. She stumbles out onto a flat balcony, that curls around over the stairwell, and it makes her dizzy to look at how many stairs she's climbed. The height also makes her a little queasy. Closing her eyes, she makes certain to stay away from the edges; strangely, there are no railings. She would hate to imagine what would happen if he came to sleep drunk.

 

The balcony hits a wall. It is blank. She frowns, and turns, looks around; there is nothing but the stairs back down and the wall before her. No Wisdom. Upon the brick of the wall, however, there is a painting - one of Solas', she recognises immediately. It depicts a city, perhaps Arlathan, with the highest reaches of the painting showing a tall, pearly white tower spearing the moon. Strangely, despite never having seen it, she feels like she has.

 

" _Allow me_ ," comes a ghostly voice, and it startles her, until she realises it is in her own head.

 

She feels Liren come close, and she shudders; it is like a wisp, a wraith, takes her hands and guides them in movements that are both foreign and familiar. She reaches up, fingers hovering just above the wall. They glide down from the tower, to its base, to one corner of the city, then another. Her hand forms a pattern that stays behind in a hazy glow, so faint it is hardly visible. When Liren pulls her back, the wall is glowing with a rune of sorts - she certainly has never seen it before, and would never have known its meaning if not for Liren sharing her knowledge. _Hope_ , it reads.

 

One, two steps back. The painting hums, its magic alive. The glow of the spell spreads, consumes the wall entirely until it burns away like a sheet of parchment set to flame. The stairwell is thrown into light as it pours through the new path, bright, afternoon sunlight.

 

Curiosity aside, she is reminded of the urgency. She hurries through, and finds herself in an expansive space, a wall of the tower open to the world outside, broken off from the room with wispy curtains that float in the wind. With a breeze, leaves from outside tumble across the floor inside, rattling as they go. It continues out into a balcony, shadowed by a few overarching trees with leaves the colour of crimson. She scans the room; there is not much furniture here, a few comfortable chairs gathered around an ornate fireplace on a wall opposite the balcony, a desk barely touched, a dresser upon which a decaying plant sits. Her eyes are drawn to the bed - curtains of the same translucent fabric drift in the wind from its four posts carved into vines, uselessly hiding the figure that sleeps within.

 

Quickly, and yet conscious of the noise she makes in such a silent space, she takes strides to the bed, to the side on which Solas lays silent, chest barely rising and falling with each breath. He does not stir at her approach, nor the buffets of cold wind hitting them both when Wisdom comes to land at the footboard. The sheets are mostly undisturbed beneath him, as if he had not planned to sleep for long. Concerned, she looks to Wisdom.

 

"Did he say he would be gone?" she asks, and her heart pounds when she checks for a beating one of his own - she thinks his breathing is a trick of her eye. But no, thankfully his heart still beats softly in his chest.

 

Wisdom does not reply immediately. "He does not often tell me when he will go to the Waking world to do his duty. Yet, he did today. He came to ask my help, to ensure I would bring you to him if this very fate occurred."

 

"He was prepared for this to happen." Ariwyn murmurs. She is worried - terribly so. "Why would he not prepare me? He sent you to fetch me and yet I have no idea what I can do."

 

The spirit huffs. "Because he knew I would. I can send you after him, to follow where his spirit ventures. All you must do is bring him back to this realm, whether he be deep in the Fade, or wandering the Waking world."

 

She does not realise it until now - she holds his hand, clutches it, heart heavy as she looks at him resting so peacefully.

 

"And if he is in danger?"

 

Wisdom's eyes close. "Let us hope that is not the case."

 

Taking a deep breath, she sets Solas' hand down by his side, and stands. She rounds the bed, to open space towards the balcony; the breeze relaxes her, just a little. The view from here is the same as from Mythal's. A beautiful city, magnificent enough to be Arlathan itself. Does it truly even exist, the world outside this palace? Why can it only been seen from certain places?

 

"Relax, mortal," Wisdom says from behind her, and she holds still as the spirit perches on her shoulder, now. It is heavier than she had imagined for a spirit - heavier than Benevolence, at least. "Close your eyes, and simply feign sleep. I will guide you to where my friend waits."

 

She does as the spirit says. She breathes, listens to the sound of the breeze, the soft rustle of the leaves. For a moment, it feels like home. A home the Dalish have never had, but it feels like wandering the woods; she can almost hear the wooden creak of aravels, or the soft singing of halla. It calms her, takes her mind away from here. She walks among her clan, as a hunter whistles a tune of an old song that was played the night before around a campfire. She cannot see the hunter, but she simply knows he is here. It feels like there are more here too. She cannot see them though, either.

 

Eventually she turns away. The clan continue, down a path she feels like at one point, she would have followed too. Instead, she takes another, which is uncharted. The ground is not worn away from many travels anymore, it is earthy, and nature behaves how it likes, roots twisting over where her feet travel and grass reaching all across. The forest begins to thin, and gives way to the true realm of the Fade; the ground is barren of plants, instead dark and almost oily, but feels hard like stone. The sky is overcast and green behind the clouds, but the world is as well lit as a summer's day - if the sun made green light instead. She wanders across the landscape, with a distant goal in mind. Spirits wander around her, but none come close enough to bother her. Overhead, an owl hoots, and she follows.

 

They reach the spirit well. The ground ends, splinters off into an abyss of green magic swirling and twisting about itself into the sky. There are spirits and demons alike bordering this, waiting for something she cannot see. She expects the owl to dive in, to pave the way to where Solas is in the Waking world. It does not.

 

Ariwyn follows the edge of the well. It is impossibly wide, but she does not tire from walking. After what feels like forever but simultaneously mere seconds, she finds herself on the other side, only able to tell by recognising a humming spirit in the vague shape of a lion she had passed earlier. They spirits do not like to move.

 

She is guided through different worlds Solas has shared with her before; cold realms of sorrow and despair, grief and agony; blazing realms of fury, vengeance, pride; softer, warmer places where gentle spirits of compassion, benevolence and patience live, though the realm is plagued by demons of their twisted natures to lure the unsuspecting into bargains of the wrong sort. On past occasions, she has been safe. Fen'Harel is a demon in his own right, one of Pride - in the Fade she is protected by him. Now, she is wary, following the owl while watching anything that she sees, spirit or demon, very closely.

 

There is no way of knowing for certain, but she feels close. The world around her grows darker, and flames of purple light the landscape in a manner she can only describe as random. She is drawn to a place surrounded by curling, decaying trees, their sharp branches like shrivelled fingers twisting after her as she passes. She comes upon a dozen stairs, made of a dark stone that is chipped and is covered in ash from a blazing fire nearby. At the top of the stairs, she comes upon a plateau that dips in the centre in a shallow bowl. It is empty, but it feels like once there might have been something there.

 

Old Eluvians surround the plateau; it feels a little like the Well of Sorrows, but smaller, abandoned. None of the mirrors glow with magic, some are even shattered, their glass lay in pieces against the cold stone. More importantly, however - Solas stands near them, arms behind his back as he gazes upon them.

 

"Pride," she calls, and he turns, quickly, meets her halfway as she walks to him. "I was worried, Wisdom said you couldn't wake, I-"

 

She is pulled to him, his arms encircle her in a tight embrace. His lips, hungry and passionate, devour hers in a way that is both exciting and a little terrifying. No complaints find a way to argue against anything else in her mind, however - she is too focused on how his soft lips feel against hers, on how he lets out the most delicious moan as they part for a breath.

 

Shaking her head, Ariwyn struggles to clear her mind. As he moves in to close the gap between them again, she presses her hands to his chest. "Wait, Pride," she asks, and he does so, annoyed but at least listening. "What happened? Why didn't you come back when Wisdom tried to wake you?"

 

"Does it matter?" Solas asks, dismissive. Not the kind of response she was expecting; she frowns. "Why do you talk? I offer you what you desire, and instead you pester me with questions?"

 

Again, she pushes at him, and steps back. Her fingers comes up to her lips, disgusted, and she wipes it on the back of her hand.

 

"You're not Pride."

 

The thing that wears Solas' face, body and voice gives her a bemused smile. "You're very quick, mortal." it says, and it licks its lips in a way that looks both alluring and a little disconcerting - she wonders if it even had a chance to study Solas' behaviour before it copied him.

 

"Where is he?" she demands, and her voice raises, albeit shakily. "What have you done to him?"

 

It chuckles. It is uncomfortable; it sounds too much like him. She cannot allow herself to trust it, not again.

 

"I have done nothing." it shrugs. It takes a step towards her, and she steps back. "I was merely asked by... A _colleague_ to keep you distracted. And clearly, since my first plan has failed..."

 

She squeaks in surprise as she bumps back into something behind her. It is foolish to turn her back on the demon, but she does, scrambling to see what holds her behind - Solas? She turns fully, grasps his arms and examines his face throughly. He looks like him. There is a moment of relief when his fingers, cold from the air, touch her cheek in the softest way. He draws her close, his breath on her face and -

 

"No." again, she finds herself pushing yet another creature with Solas' face away. A few steps back, and she can see both - one, cloaked in a mantle of fur of deepest black, a smirk on his face and his eyes alight with the excitement of a hunt. The other, in silks and ornate, beautiful robes he has donned in the past, concerned and extending a hand for her to take.

 

She breathes, closes her eyes. When they reopen, they are still there. She cannot allow them to influence her again.

 

"What are you?" she asks, calmly.

 

The one with his hand extended draws it back, and he looks hurt. She stills her beating heart - _it is not him, it is not him_. The other, with a chuckle, flashes sharp fangs behind his lips.

 

"Is it not obvious, mortal?" dark Solas folds his arms behind his back, in a movement all too familiar. "We are Desire. We know what you want in your heart, even if you cannot have it. And so, we will provide."

 

"Of course not for free."

 

The other Solas looks confused. "Is anything free, vhenan?"

 

These demons are too clever; it hurts to hear him say it, for she knows it is merely a trick. Yet the word is in his voice. If he ever says it to her in truth, will it ever feel real, after this?

 

"Take our hand," the one shrouded in dark says, and offers his hand up to her. The other copies. "We can give you everything you have ever wanted, anything you could dream of. Everything - everything and more, mortal."

 

She stays rigid. Her hands twitch, craving to reach out and take each Solas' offer, to see what they could give her. _They are not real_ , reminds a quiet part of her.

 

"As much as I detest to break a bargain in the making," comes another voice - not Solas', but familiar, "I need to speak with your mortal, Desire."

 

From the dark crawls a spirit - no, a demon? Both? She has asked this question before, she realises, as it reveals itself as Prudence, slinking out with tendrils of sickly green. It slides between the two mimics of Solas, stops a few feet from her. Desire looks annoyed, and both of them show it.

 

"I have your Pride." it announces, its voice echoing quietly. "He bargained with me, and he is not far, reaping the boon of my gifts."

 

Ariwyn narrows her eyes, glares at it. "What have you done?"

 

It chuckles. "Unlike you, I believe he knows very well the risks of dealing with my kind. He is in no danger."

 

"Then why did you send Desire to _distract_ me?

 

"Well, I was busy making a deal. If you had barged in and served as a distraction to your precious Pride, perhaps he would not have sealed it." its undefinable shape shifts, like a shrug. "And now that we have reached an agreement, I would propose the same offer to you."

 

Her arms fold over her chest, attempting to look somewhat defiant. "What offer?"

 

"He sought me out - he knew where to find me, so soon after I was drawn to you." it drifts, circling her. She does not twist around to watch it - while it is behind her, she locks eyes with the two Solas, who cock their heads in sync at her. Prudence eventually ends in front of her, again. "He asked me what I knew of the earliest origins of Archdemons - creatures that plague your land with sin and corruption, killing any who dare oppose it."

 

"I know what Archdemons are." she spits. "What did he offer in return?"

 

"Simple, really." its shoulders shrug again. "I know far too much, I paint myself a target any time I come to near to the little slice of reality your People have carved of the Beyond. Your great Mythal seeks me, does she not?"

 

She almost wants to know how it knows that - as far as she knows, Mythal only told her. She had wondered what she could possibly want from Prudence, but she supposes it will not tell.

 

"He offered me ways in which I might flee his mistress." the spirit finishes, and chuckles. "Truly, when I believe I know all there is to learn about the Fade, a living thing teaches me otherwise."

 

"And now that you have that, what could I possibly offer you in return for the same knowledge?" she knows how this game is played now. There will be no more mistakes.

 

The spirit - or demon she is not sure - drifts backwards, to where the Desire demon still stands, in two forms. Its tendrils wrap around their arms, bring them forward to her. When it releases them, their hands reach out for her; the one in dark fur twists a strand of his hair around his finger, the other, traces her jaw with the lightest of touches. Then, Prudence grabs them again and forces them to withdraw.

 

"While I am eager to propose my offer to you," it says, "I must be fair to a colleague. I offered them a chance at a bargain, so I allow you the option of choosing from theirs, or mine."

 

Desire gives her a smile - both of them, in differing ways, one a predatory wolf grin, and the other, a gentle one of comfort. She casts her eyes downwards, as if she were to look at them, her decision might be influenced. She hates demons.

 

"I decline Desire's offer." she says, finally. "I will not take your hand."

 

There is a growl of annoyance, no longer in Solas' voice. There is a flash of magic, but she does not look up to see; after a moment, it is now simply her and Prudence remaining on the plateau.

 

"Wise choice." Prudence observes, "Desire can be... Fickle."

 

She does not announce that she thinks all spirits and demons are.

 

"Now, as for what you may offer me," it continues, and drifts away to where the shallow dip of the ground rests, "I know you traversed realms, back to your own - I will have what you have learned."

 

Taken aback, she asks, "That's all?"

 

The spirit turns with a grin. "You have more to offer me?"

 

Quickly, she shakes her head. "I do not believe I do." She approaches, cautious. It seems to simple an offer, but she will ensure safe rules; "You will only see my memories, you will not take them," she says, firstly, "You will give me only what you promise. _Only_ knowledge of the origins of Archdemons - nothing more, nothing less. And you will tell me, not show."

 

It chuckles. It appears approving. "It seems you have learned from your own foolishness. Very well; show me what you saw in your world."

 

She offers her hands to it, and its greedy tendrils reach up, wrap around her wrists. Her eyes close, and it is like the entirety of her days spent in the Waking world replay in too fast a speed. Leaving the Temple, meeting Hawke, the hours upon hours spent on the road, witnessing the bar fight Hawke and Fenris so eagerly ended, exploring Denerim, meeting the Queen. It all plays out so fast she is dizzy when the spirit lets her go.

 

"Fascinating." Prudence says, "Despite the fall of the Empire cities and civilisation still thrives. What you have shown is nothing like the life you used to live - there is some hope for the world after all."

 

"For humans, yes," she grumbles, "They own the power, the money, the cities. If you are an elf among them, you are naught more than dirt under their foot."

 

"Unfortunate." it does not sound pitying. Regardless, it continues, "As for your gift - the knowledge I will share is old, older than Arlathan itself."

 

She nods, and tries not to show her eagerness. Knowledge is power - being offered it without to great a return is the best outcome she could hope for.

 

"These Archdemons of your world - the humans' Chantry teaches they were men of the land of Tevinter, who invaded the realm of their God?" Prudence asks, but does not wait for her confirmation. It already knows. "That they were cast down for their hubris, twisted into vile creatures to bring their sin upon all the world."

 

"I know this part. What more is there to know, Prudence?"

 

It huffs in annoyance. "Patience, mortal." it scolds. "This history these humans tell - it is false. These Tevinter men were not of their own. They were elves."

 

She blinks. Once, twice. The spirit waits, its words unchanging. It is almost like she expects it to break into laughter and tell her it is all a lie.

 

"Elves?" she echoes, uncertain. "Why would they invade the Golden City? We don't even believe in the Maker, at least, not how the humans do."

 

"No." it agrees. "Perhaps they did if out of spite, jealousy. A desire to prove to the humans whose belief was the truth all along. I cannot say."

 

Ignoring how her head spins, she tries to stay focused. "Is there anything else?" she questions. "Do you know who these elves were? Are they the Forgotten Ones?"

 

"Oh no, they are an entirely different form of corruption, whose origin even I do not understand." Prudence drifts silently through the air, circles her again. "There is little more I know; once, someone stole this knowledge from me, and I only have what they deemed to leave behind."

 

Who would steal the knowledge of a spirit? Why? Then, it hits her all too quickly - Mythal would, Mythal most likely could. It does not answer why she would hide the truth of the Archdemons. Maybe to protect the People from the wrath of humans? But no, that had already happened, her actions far too late. She is puzzled.

 

"However," it says, breaking her reprieve, "There is one who might still bear the other half to this puzzle you are so intent on solving. You would do well to seek him out, but you may be hard-pressed to convince him to share what he knows."

 

"He?" she frowns. Not a spirit, then, even then do not assign themselves genders.

 

"You know of him, as all elves do." Prudence gives her a smile. "You must seek the God of Secrets - Dirthamen himself."


	26. Chapter 26

News comes to Mythal's palace not long after Ariwyn and Solas meet with Prudence. The timing could not be better than it is; she almost suspects it to be an act of the spirit's. Messengers come, cloaked in dark, shadowy robes laced with purple threads and silks - both have hair as black as night, skin ebony and eyes sharp. Their vallaslin is bright and silvery, though neither match. As mysterious as they are, Mythal herself greets them. Members of Mythal's court are gathered around, crowds of faces bearing her vallaslin, eager to see what these strangers bring. 

Ariwyn watches them nervously, as they stop at the base of the stairs where Mythal waits. Solas stands beside her, the ever-faithful protector. Strangely, the scene looks very similar to how she first came here, though inverted: now she stands at the top, looking down at the strange elves that epitomise the very opposite of the golden palace they stand in.

"Mythal, our Protector." one of them greets, his voice deep and silky. He bows at the waist, in a manner she has not seen before; his wrist twists against his chest, fingers splayed and palm upwards to the goddess. "We bring news from the Violet Abyss."

Violet Abyss? Ariwyn wracks her mind for where she has heard that before - it is a realm of Uthenera, in their slice of the Fade, or Solas has told her. Each Evanuris has one of their own, but this realm is happily shared by two: the twin brother as Falon'Din, guide of the dead, and Dirthamen, keeper of secrets. Suddenly, she is far more interested in what these messengers have to say. 

"Please," Mythal says, with a smile wicked enough to turn a man to stone, "Tell me of this news."

The other messenger, a woman, now bows as well. "Our masters of the deep and sky, Falon'Din and Dirthamen, announce that they would host the Great Assembly this turn of the Fade. This announcement serves as your invitation, my goddess."

There are whispers breaking out among the crowd. She hears a snort from beside her - not loud enough to be heard by those talking, but enough for her to hear. Turning, she is not sure whether she should be surprised or not to see Feyrion beside her, Benevolence snuggled in his arms. 

"They announce it like none of us knew," he whispers to her, a bemused expression on his face. "It was decided they would host it last turn - no one even remembers how long ago that was."

She supposes it would be difficult to, with how immensely difficult it is to measure the passage of time here. These "turns" are likely the closest the ancient elves have to years now, but it is just a guess. 

"I have so many questions." she blurts back in response, and he chuckles, straightening up and shuffling the spirit more comfortably, like a mother swapping the weight to her other hip. 

These messengers go with Mythal to discuss further details, and the hall is left in a loud rabble of chatter and excitement. As Solas goes to leave after her, he turns and in one fluid motion, raises a hand and beckons loosely with his fingers. At once, she jumps and hurries through the crowd - who else would he be signalling to? When she gets through the horde of elves, she jogs a little to catch up to his speedy pace. 

Mythal walks distantly ahead of them, the messengers at her side. The stark contrast between them is literally night and day; Mythal, a cloak of golden hair, donned in a white, glimmering gown, eyes as bright as fire; the guests, mysterious, eyes almost glowing a vivid white when they glance back at them following. Their gaze makes her a little uneasy. 

"These are servants of Falon'Din." Solas whispers, even despite the long stretch of corridor between them. "They serve death. Dirthamen's people are not so want for the dramatic."

Ahead, someone speaks. It is one of Falon'Din's messengers, the lady who has not yet spoken. She regards Ariwyn with such a look of disgusted curiosity, and despite being used to such a glare from other ancient Elvhen, this one makes her uncomfortable.

"My Lady, if I may," she says, gesturing loosely towards where Ariwyn follows behind. Her nails are long, like talons, and glitter in silver. "Why do you allow a Waking one the honour of being in your entourage?"

Mythal laughs. Or, as close as it will probably ever get - it is as melodic as wind chimes, but unsettling enough to be hung from the porch of a killer. "The little Waking one is not with me." she dismisses quickly. "It belongs to my Pride. He is quite fond of it."

Ariwyn tries not to let it bother her. She sees Solas' fingers twitch slightly, only the tiniest bit, behind his back. He says nothing. 

The group eventually find Mythal's council chamber - various Lords and Ladies have already gathered. Some, like Lord Nelaros, are missing. Solas sees his seat empty and snorts, but does not say anything. When he is seated, he murmurs something to her about Nelaros celebrating nothing far too hard last night. Some members of the council appear disgruntled when they are asked to move from their seat into one along so that the messengers may be seated together.

"Honoured guests," Mythal speaks, her voice almost wispy and far off across the table. "We welcome you to our halls. For those who were not present at your audience, please repeat your message."

Ariwyn bites her tongue, tries not to groan in frustration. This is another thing ancient elves just love to do, Solas included; waste time. There have been many occasions where he will go from talking about one thing, to ramble about another with no warning, or his mind will be preoccupied with something else, promising to continue their discussion later. Feyrion's lessons followed the same promise of later.

Eternity must make one patient. 

The council break out into whispers when the shadowy servants of Falon'Din tell their news. Solas sits with an elbow on the table, hand before his face as if thinking. She can see from behind him that his mouth is flickering into a smile, though his eyes hide it well. So desperately she wishes to ask him what is funny. 

Discussions begin, and she listens with an eager ear. Mythal will go to this "Great Assembly" herself, along with an entourage. Immediately, bickering breaks out among the council members, arguing over who should go, who is "best suited" to attend a gathering. Some of the Lords and Ladies take this as an insult and their arguing continues in earnest. It continues on for a period far too long before Mythal intervenes.

"My Pride will attend with me," she begins, in a very matter of fact manner. Her eyes flick up to where Ariwyn stands beside his seat. "If he so wishes he may bring his mortal. Lady Melle, you will join us; Ladies Deveni and Briaya too. Had Lord Nelaros willed himself from his bed this day, he would have had the invitation as well."

Solas' lips twitch. He looks like he's threatening to laugh, and holding it in so well. Ariwyn is beginning to think he had something to do with his "celebration of nothing" last night. 

After more squabbling - mostly those who were chosen acting smug to those who were not - the council adjourns. Mythal offers the guests a place to stay, but they do not seem the type to be guests easily entertained. Escorted by servants, they are led back the way they came, disappearing as quickly as they appeared. Ariwyn and Solas leave, and head in the direction of the garden; he wishes to speak alone. 

"It is fantastic that Mythal has given me permission to bring you," he says, as soon as they cross the border to the outside and the world shifts to an almost silent haze. "I would rather have not had to sneak you through."

She can't help but laugh. "You, sneak me to another realm? You, breaking rules?"

He presses a hand to his chest, bows his head. "I am the dreaded trickster wolf, am I not?"

"Speaking of being a trickster..." out of curiosity, she asks him of her theory regarding Nelaros. For a moment, he chews his lip, the corners of which have turned upwards - he's trying not to laugh again.

He shrugs, feigning innocence. "Perhaps. I cannot say - he was celebrating rather hard for... Well, no particular reason."

"Pride!" she tries to scold, but laughs, and her smack of his shoulder is far lighter than any true reprimand. He laughs with her, a hearty chuckle she'd never heard from him; he must've had to try hard to keep it in. 

Ever since their meeting with Prudence, he seemed content to wait. She wasn't sure what for, until now - unlike him, she didn't have the knowledge of this Great Assembly, nor who was to host it. It almost seemed too perfect, yet she can imagine reaching Dirthamen would be a challenge all its own after they reach his realm. Lost in thought, she sighs. He ducks his head, bows down to see her face; she cannot help the small smile that comes to her lips when his fingers reach out, tip her head upwards to him. They withdraw quickly. 

"What is the matter?" he asks. 

Uncertain, she twists her fingers together. "What if Prudence was wrong?" she murmurs, "What if Dirthamen has nothing to tell us? What if, worse, he has information that changes everything?"

Solas too seems to get lost in thought at the idea. He folds his arms behind his back, slowly and comfortably paces across the garden space.

"I suppose we will see when we reach that point." he shrugs, and then sighs, too. "It is difficult to guess what he could tell us. Whether it shatters the very foundation of the world, or Prudence thought to make a fool of us, it does not matter. Not yet. So do not worry."

They are quiet, for a time. She watches his back, as he steps across the garden; his mind is elsewhere, he hums to himself. She doesn't recognise the tune, but smiles nonetheless as he wanders from plant to plant, inspecting them with vague curiosity, before moving to the next. Shutting her eyes, she groans - she's smiling at him because he's looking at plants. What mundane thing will she see him do next and laugh with glee? By the Creators.

-

Despite being in a realm in which anything has the potential to be manipulated with a thought, the party of ancient elves take far too long packing. Instead of magicking new clothes from thin air, Mythal and her soon-to-be entourage spend the next day preparing. Solas sends her to do her own, and she only doesn't laugh because of his serious expression. 

So, she has Feyrion with her, directing her on what to take. She is yet to understand what happens at these assemblies, and so the opinion falls to him. He lounges on her bed - despite claiming it is uncomfortable compared to his own; "I can't believe your Wolf lets you sleep like this!" he cries dramatically - waving a hand to the left or right for each item of clothing she picks out. He doesn't seem to worry that the pile to take is getting heavier than she could carry. 

“This is what you wanted to learn dancing for, isn't it?" Feyrion asks with a bemused look as she tosses another tunic at the pile he names insufficient. 

Realisation dawns on her, but she doesn't let it show. Brushing it off, she nods. Solas had never told her why he wanted her to learn, but now it makes so much sense. Especially if he already knew it was coming months in advance. Months? Maybe, who understands time here other than the random cycles of the day? She groans as she looks out the window - it looks like the sun wants to stay up longer, today. 

“Please don’t take offence, young one,” he adds, rising and quickly taking ahold of the ornate vest in her hands. It stops her, and she looks up at him, both curious and surprised. He gives her a smile. “No one may dance with you. You know that, don’t you?”

That is the least of her worries, she thinks. But she does not tell him that - nor does she feign disappointment. In fact, her indifference to the whole dancing affair helps to fake a facade of braveness, as if she was truly hiding an insult. It doesn’t matter to her, but it will keep him from suspecting anything. For an inexplicable reason, she feels like she must keep the matter of the Archdemons between her and Solas, for now.

“It is fine.” she says, with a shrug. She pries the vest from his hands, and lays it on the pile. Silently, he swaps it from the pile to take. “I understand by now what I am considered to be. It is no different to how it was in my world.”

“How so?” his head cocks to the side, frowning. 

“Being looked down upon. The humans believe they are better than elves, as these elves consider themselves better than Waking ones like me.”

His brows draw tight, and his lips purse unhappily. “Surely not all of them, though. There must be some humans who treat you fairly, like I try to. I don’t treat you like I’m better than you, do I?”

“No, you treat me well.” she smiles, and considers his words. There are some humans that have proved her full prejudice against them is not wholly good; Hawke was kind, plenty more than she deserved for being a stranger. As was the Queen, in her patience. She wonders what had made the two of them to see elves as more than mere slaves with pointed ears. Hawke was seemingly in love with one - why is she different from other humans?

"Not many of my esteemed friends agree that you Waking ones are fascinating." he sighs, and with a flick of his wrist, the pile upon the bed distorts and churns; in its place a moment later sits a satchel, not too big and not too small. "Alas, we make the most of it. Here, young one. A gift." 

Feyrion lifts the satchel from the bed, and holds it out for her. Surprised, she takes it from him. Solas had told her before how malleable reality is here, and she mostly didn't believe it was a common talent. Yet here she holds a very solid, very sturdy piece of leatherworking, a flexible strap hanging down beneath. Curiously, she opens it, expecting to find the very clothes that disappeared, yet all she sees is a dark voice. 

"It's an infinity." he says with a grin. "Think of what you want to take, and it'll be there when you grab for it." 

She'd be more curious about the magic of it if she wasn't so suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. She has been given a gift from Mythal herself, and it hangs around her throat each and every day. And yet, Feyrion's means more than she ever thought it could over one from an Evanuris. He has been so kind to her, and he has had no reason. Solas was forced to learn to be gentle with her, but Feyrion has genuinely been a friend from the start. 

Wordlessly, she throws her arms around him, and squeezes. He’s taken aback, but then laughs, pats her back. It’s so strangely comforting - in another world, Feyrion would’ve felt like a member of her clan, a member of her  _ family _ . Suddenly, she feels a pang in her heart, and she blinks away wetness that swells in her eyes. She misses them, by the Creators she  _ misses  _ them. Shaky, she puts her face flat on his shoulder, fingers grip the back of his shirt. It takes everything she has not to cry.

“Are you alright, young one?” he asks, very softly. His hand rubs soothingly at her back.

Slowly, she draws back, and swallows. She nods. Despite her best attempts, there are still some tears in her eyes; when she forces a smile, some escape and roll down her cheeks. Feyrion’s hand reaches up, and with a grin, he wipes them away, straightening the satchel in her hands. 

“One final thing,” Feyrion adds, and she looks at him, expectant. “Do not allow those in the Violet court to get the better of you. Ominous ones, they are.”

Servants of death - ominous indeed.

-

It feels like an eternity before Mythal's party is ready to leave what Solas calls the Summer Court. Mythal's realm was befitting of such a name, glittering and beautiful, rife with plants and nature, every day as pretty and warm as a comfortable summer's day. Their destination, he tells her, is the Violet Abyss, shared domain of brothers Falon'Din and Dirthamen. It is not his favourite of the Evanuris' lands here in the Fade. 

"Which is?" she asks, as they stand waiting in the large hall amongst a rather large gathering. Despite Mythal only wishing for a handful of her council to accompany her, it seems that each is deserving of a dozen servants and guards to accompany them. It is strange; do they expect trouble from their own people? 

"None." Solas admits, and shrugs. He regards her with a small, contemplative smile. "I prefer the true Fade, the deepest reaches of the land of spirits. It is filled with infinite possibilities." 

The other realms, as Solas describes, are mere extension of this, which was the first. Each are maintained by Guardians like the one she met in the garden. There is Elgar'nan's, the Ardent Sanctuary, a blazing beacon amidst an arid desert said to have been decimated by the God's fury. Andruil and Ghilan'nain share the Golden Plains, a beautiful biome lush with game and halla alike. June and Sylaise, husband and wife, share the Winter Court, the very opposite in the one in which Ariwyn and Solas stand; it is supposedly forever cold, warmed only by the soft glow of blue flame. 

It is hard to imagine such diverse landscapes for Ariwyn. Mythal's Court, while beautiful and surreal, doesn't feel to have much substance outside these walls; looking out any window shows little more than the distorted, twisting colours of the illusion around them. Perhaps Mythal cares little for building a world past the boundaries of this Palace. 

"What is this assembly, exactly?" she queries, folding her arms behind her back. She realises only after she's done it that she's mimicked his posture almost exactly. He seems to find it amusing. 

He reaches for her, and she's a little taken aback when he adjusts a strand of her hair to be tucked behind her ear. She's surprised he'd be so willing to do such a thing in front of such a large gathering, but no one is even looking at them. Her cheeks warm, and she looks elsewhere. 

"Every turn, one of the Evanuris must host a meeting within their realm for their fellows to join with them." Solas explains, simply. "A turn is measured by significant change across every realm. For ours, it was the shifting of everything you noticed." 

"And this turn, it happens everywhere?" 

"Yes. Each realm will have experienced some change, perhaps damage. Usually, it means our realms are shrinking and is irreversible." 

She frowns.  _ Then time is running out _ . 

Eventually, Mythal herself arrives. She is dressed as glamorous as ever, in a long and flowing gown decorated with pearls and sparkling clear crystals that reflect light in every direction. Her hair for once is braided in an elegant fashion down her spine, resting on the tail of her dress. She is joined by an entourage all her own, and it only grows larger when she enters, as a collective of guards join the rear of her party. Beside Ariwyn, Solas stiffens a little. After a moment, she scowls; at Mythal's side, Nelaros slinks along like a snake, sneering across the hall. He appears to have gotten himself re-invited to this trip. 

"Come," Solas says, "We will join Mythal." 

With little more than that, he takes off across to where the party stands. Hesitantly, she follows. As much as she dislikes Nelaros, she doesn't want to get caught up in this strange rivalry he has with Solas. Still, she can't not do as he asks. This was going to be a long trip. 

She almost wishes Solas would have had to sneak her to the other realm, after all. 


	27. Chapter 27

Mythal leads the enormous party through the corridors of the glistening Palace. Onlookers stand to the side, watching in envy as those chosen to travel with the goddess give many smug looks as they pass. It is hard not to feel uncomfortable; Ariwyn does not belong here. Beside Solas, perhaps, but amongst everything else? No, she simply feels unwanted, a stain on this otherwise perfect formation of ancient elves. 

Eventually the corridor gives way to a hall with a ceiling so high she can't tell if it's the sky or not. Unfortunately she can't stand around gawking up to figure it out; she doesn't want to appear as simple minded as these elves seem to think she is. Instead, she keeps in line with Solas, who follows behind Mythal with a purposeful stride. Nelaros hovers nearby, frequently glaring in their direction as if to check Solas is still there. He's disappointed every time. He is the last thing on her mind though, when she gives herself a chance to look down from the ceiling. Before them stands a towering pane of glass, arched high above their heads to a point that disappears between the clouds. Mystified, she stares through the crowds of other elves, and sees herself reflected back; short beside the others, hair dark against her pale skin, eyes bright and wide with awe. Solas catches her gaze through the mirror, and smiles in amusement, before he looks away once more.

“Is this an Eluvian?” she asks in disbelief, keeping her voice low. Such a massive structure - she would be in utter shock if the part of her grounded in reality kept nagging that it isn’t truly real. 

Solas nods, and while his posture is relaxed, his eyes are alert, examining the mirror as well, though as if to check it is intact. “This is our gate to any other realm within our slice of the Fade.”

An intact, working Eluvian. The scale is unlike any she has ever seen - perhaps there were some like this, in the real world. Practical for transporting such a large party like theirs, she supposes. The soft chattering of the group goes silent as Mythal steps forth, approaches the enormous mirror and stops before it. Despite her being one of the taller elves here, Mythal still looks so incredibly small against the glass. Wordlessly, she outstretches a hand, waves it against the surface of the glass. Her pale fingers glaze across it like a smooth stone skipping the surface of a pond. A bright blue glow, rife with an energy so powerful it almost hurts to watch, follows her hand, and seeps into the mirror itself. Ariwyn is not the only one in awe; there are some gasps and other such noises of fascination as the magic spreads like wildfire across the glass, and beneath its surface it seems to meld and ripple like water from the one central point Mythal had touched. After a while, the image clears. 

The goddess wordlessly paves the way through, and she passes through the Eluvian as if it were a mere archway. There's no reaction nor magical effect, like other albeit less impressive portals Ariwyn has seen. As she follows the group through, there's not even the satisfying  _ pop _ into silence there is protecting the garden in which the spirit well resides. Once they're across, Ariwyn is able to fully appreciate the sheer complexity of it all; there are dozens of mirrors like the one in which they came, lined up one after another like dominoes. This is the largest one in sight. She can't see very far for the thick, cold mist that suffocates the air and obscures her vision. Still, she is able to understand what this place is, even without seeing the deepest intricacies. 

"The Crossroads," she murmurs to Solas, who regards her with a quirked brow. "I've read about this place. It used to exist, did it not? In reality? The network of Eluvians all led here." 

Solas hums, nods - and then a resmoseful look crosses his face. "It  _ did _ exist, once. Though when Arlathan fell, as did our Empire. Slowly our world began to collapse. Each Eluvian that went dark was as hands of a clock that was far too fast. Eventually we gave shattered those we had left. The Crossroads ceased to exist."

"Just like that?" she breathes. An entire network of interconnected portals spanning the whole world, destroyed in an instant? She imagines the sheer destruction of it all, watching civilisation itself crumble as its people are forced to break its very pillars themselves to protect what they had left. 

"Perhaps it lingers in some plane of reality." he contemplates, but does not seem interested enough to find out. He explains, "I would be hard pressed to breathe life back into a mirror. Finding a functioning one would be near impossible." 

Despite the people around her, she suddenly feels very alone. Perhaps it is the chilly air, or the claustrophobia of the mist so dense it's hard to see very far past her face. Instinctively she hovers closer to Solas, and to her surprise, she feels his hand press against her back, as if to guide. It keeps her close. She tries not to read into it, but it is so difficult when her heart races in her chest even when he gets close, never mind touches her. Patience is not a virtue of hers, especially not in the same manner as these elves with infinite time; she wonders if he has come to a decision yet. 

Regardless, it is not a topic her mind should be focused on. The cluster of elves stay packed together, and there are those who behave like her; wary, unsure, closing in on themselves against the cold. Then there are others, like Solas, who hold their heads high and backs straight, and walk through these Crossroads as if it is second nature. Surely in the days of Arlathan these roads were not so unwelcoming to travellers. Perhaps in the years since, travel across the realms of the Fade is discouraged for the common elf. She couldn't imagine remaining in Mythal's Palace forever if she were to live here; she was a nuisance for both her father and her clan, always allowing her curiosity to get the better of her. If given the opportunity, she'd most likely become the same to Solas. Eventually, the mist gives way to another Eluvian, similar in size and shape to the one in which they entered. It stands tall amongst the other Eluvians that, despite being taller than her, look miniscule beside the one they stand before. It is nestled between decorative trees that branch up into spheres of branches, and in the centre it holds a single candle each, burning a bright magenta. 

Once more Mythal does her trick. This time, in the likeness of the flames, the magic starts blue on Mythal's fingertips, and burns into a purple as it seeps into the mirror. It spreads, and the glass shrivels away like blackening paper would over a hearth. As it creeps away into the frame of the Eluvian, the view of the other side becomes clear. The mist from the Crossroads rolls through and dissipates quickly in the heavy atmosphere; before them stands a bridge - a very,  _ very _ long bridge. It stretches across a body of dark water, that runs underneath so quickly that it is hard to watch without getting dizzy. It looks like water, at least. Following the grey smoothstone of the bridge, Ariwyn gazes up at where its destination ends. Against a cloudy sky in which a violet aurora dances, a towering city overhangs the edge of a sharp waterfall. The water crashes down in a straight line parallel with the bridge, and it rushes off like a river to an empty void. Around the tallest peak of a tower, birds circle.  _ They have to be large birds _ , she thinks,  _ if I can see them from here _ . Behind them, the Eluvian has clouded over once more, a blurred reflection of five dozen or so elves staring back at her. The once-golden frame has faded to a muted metallic silver, looking almost as gloomy and forgotten as the relics of her world. 

In the Summer Court, the elves of this party would be boisterous and loud, chatting and conversing with no cares in the world. Here, they whisper, and gossip - almost as if someone would hear them. They begin across the bridge. Ariwyn walks with Solas on her left, and the rail on her right; it looks sturdy enough, but something tells her not to trust it with her weight. Beyond it, the water is pitch black, not unlike the distant void where the world itself ends. She isn't sure what to look at first - the sky is broken where the dazzling violet aurora dances amongst the clouds, and the dark city would be impossible to distinguish from its backdrop if not for the way it glistens and reflects the hue of the sky. How far do the walls of the city go, she wonders? Is the magic here powerful enough to support a place as sprawling as Denerim? Larger? Questions bubble beneath the surface, but she keeps her mouth closed. From the behaviour of the other elves, she thinks talking is perhaps not the best decision. 

It feels like it takes forever to cross the bridge. One elf beside her complains about how his feet ache so much he's unsure whether he'll be able to walk again - she would love to see him travel with Dalish, she thinks with a silent laugh. At the end of the bridge, before the imposing city walls, is yet another Eluvian. This one is already alive, and beyond it she can faintly make out a hall of a sort - it is dimly lit and cast in shadow, yet it seems somewhat welcoming. In contrast to the foreboding environment out here, at the very least. Before the mirror stand three elves in dark clothing, embroidered with fanciful silver patterns. Two of them wear a sort of ceremonial armour, similar to that of Mythal's sentinels - this style appears more fierce, cold silver and sculpted to jutting angles that give the armoured elves an intimidating appearance. Beside Mythal's hooded guards in golden hues, these guards seem like ghosts.

"Mythal, our great protector," the woman in the middle greets - she is unarmoured, and when she bows, her robes billow about her in a tumultuous manner. "Welcome to the home of our gods of sky and sea, Dirthamen and Falon'Din. We open our doors to you and yours for this Great Assembly." 

Mythal nods her head in recognition, just the smallest fraction. "And we thank you for your hospitality. Where are my sons so that I may greet them myself?" 

"I am afraid they are both preoccupied with organisation as of present, my Goddess. I have been instructed to direct you to where you will find respite until a time in which all of those gathered might enjoy the revelry together." 

That doesn't seem to please her. Behind Ariwyn, she hears whispers amongst the other elves, as if this is not the first time hosts have not been present to welcome. "First June and Sylaise and now the brothers, too?" one man in a silvery gown whispers to his travel partner, who nods enthusiastically. 

"And to think, we are so prepared and prompt when it is our turn to host!" he hurriedly claims back. 

All in all, it seems rather petty, but Ariwyn should expect nothing less of these elves by now. 

"Very well." Mythal says suddenly, and the whispers hush. "Show us to our lodgings." 

The trio bow, and turn on their heels through the Eluvian. Mythal follows, her gown and hair fluttering in the wind behind her. Slowly, the procession moves forward, filtering to beyond the mirror. As Ariwyn moves to follow, something catches her eye. Bewildered she stops, and looks; the water beneath the bridge is as black as it was the last time she had checked. Shaking her head, she moves to catch up to Solas. A trick of the bizarre light here. 

Ariwyn is a little disappointed when the Eluvian leads them directly indoors. She had hoped to see to what extent the magic here had a life of its own; just how many streets does this dark city possess? She wonders if Solas would let her explore. They enter through into the dimly lit hall she had spied through the mirror earlier, but now it feels as ominous if not more than outside. There are great thick pillars that hold the stone sky above them, in between which sit ornate basins alight with purple flame. Wordlessly, Mythal waves a hand, and as she passes each one, the flames become warmer and brighter. Some of the elves of their party breath sighs of relief. Admittedly, it feels more comfortable now. Their hosts don't seem offended by the change, nor surprised. Very quickly this place begins to feel as much like a maze as Mythal's Palace; they take twists and turns in every which direction, down dark corridors with long windows that open to the aurora above, and she can't help but wonder if the confusion was intentional. Eventually, they reach a pair of large doors, carved expertly to depict a moon high above a seascape. When the servants of the Brothers approach, they swing open, and the moon halves. 

 

"I hope your people will find these quarters to their liking." their guide says with another flourishing bow, as Mythal walks past. They find themselves in a large chamber, the ceiling of which curves upwards to a point; below the highest point sits a round pit where a blazing purple fire lights the room. There are similar, smaller braziers on each pillar to add further light. With a dismissive wave, the fires turn golden again, and the room grows brighter and more welcoming. Between each pillar that lines each side of the chamber, there are more doors, of which the closest to pairs are open. Inside, she can see a dozen or so beds. 

"They will do." Mythal decides, and begins into the room with a purposeful stride. She picks the door at the end of the chamber, which opens as she approaches, and disappears inside with a handful of handmaidens.

There is some chatter that breaks out between the elves, seemingly more comfortable and relaxed. They disperse about the room, some heading directly for where the beds lay. Others relax around the fire pit, warming themselves from the cold as if they had travelled such a tremendous way to get here. In a strange way, Ariwyn feels tired like they had, but perhaps the harsh differences in environment just feels like whiplash. She throws a glance at Solas, who surveys the room with a silent and focused gaze.

"What now?" she asks, as quietly as she can manage. Despite the calm atmosphere, she feels somewhat tense. Even her time in the Summer Court could not prepare her for the strange feeling of not belonging in another realm; even though she is technically among her People. 

Solas glances at one of the rooms, where elves have already taken up beds and set down their belongings. "I would recommend you choose a place to lay your head," he says simply, "Before they are all taken." 

"And then?" 

"We wait." 

-

That evening - or, at least it feels like evening - their host returns. The lady flanked by the elves in armour is now dressed in an exquisite gown that shimmers on the border of red and purple wherever she moves. Ariwyn had been preemptive, and noticed the other elves of the party had changed attire too; even finer garments than their usual were donned and she followed suit, wearing a creamy gown etched with golden detail. Across the chamber, Mythal stands in radiant splendor, her Lords and Ladies flanking her. Ariwyn spots Solas, in regal armour designed for more ceremonial purposes than battle. The others are dressed much the same, with golden splaudrons and breastplate though each wear a unique token; Lady Melle, an excess of pendants and chokers that looks as if it makes her head weigh heavy; Lady Deveni and Briaya each wear vibrant shawls decorated with different pieces of dazzling art. Solas and Nelaros, the only Lords at Mythal's side, stand to her left and right. As usual, Solas wears a mantle of fur around his shoulders, as dark as the hair that falls upon it. She is glad she brought hers to match. Nelaros, however, looks like he's overdone it to match Solas, and is covered in feathers that point out at odd angles. She's worried they'll poke out someone's eye.

"My Goddess and her Summer Court," the guide bows, and her hair, now dark and loose, slips over her shoulders and falls to her waist. "Our gods Falon'din and Dirthamen now await yours and the other courts for celebration." 

Mythal looks barely interested. She takes forward a step to where the lady is still bowed in a courtesy, and her Council follow. 

"Let us not waste any time, then." she decides. 

Their guide takes them out of their chambers, and down windy halls that feel as if they were designed uniform, but for the life of her, Ariwyn cannot remember the way back. Perhaps all the dark stone walls with little to no distinction all look the same. They walk a corridor lined on their left with high windows, that let's in moonlight from between the tumultuous clouds. The ornate bars between the panes cast shadows of birds and some sort of fish-like creatures watching one another from above and below. For some reason, it unsettles her. 

The other elves aren't chatty now. At first she thought perhaps it was out of respect for their hosts, but haughty, arrogant elves have respect for none but She who commands them. Whatever it is, she feels it too now; a constant sense of being watched, of someone lingering in the shadows to catch their whispers. When Mythal had cast her spells on the flames, the place felt more welcoming and safe. Perhaps it was the flames! Are they enchanted? Or is she overthinking this?

Eventually there comes a door. It is larger and wider than the rest, with similar theming to the others; a full moon that opens to two halves, a swooping bird under each. Their guide steps aside and her armoured friends follow, and wordlessly, Mythal strides forward and throws her arms up. With them goes the doors, that fly open immediately. Her self-assuredness seems to spark some confidence in her people, and they follow quickly, heads held high. 

The hall they are in is magnificently large, rivalling that of the hall in Mythal's holding the Eluvian. The ceiling is open to the sky, and here the aurora is bright and twirling among the clouds. This hall is well lit by braziers of a more pastel purple, and it is bright enough to see where she is going whilst retaining some mystery. Around the hall there are already other parties assembled in size similar to theirs; at the head of each stands a different member of the Evanuris. Mythal leads hers to stand on this end of the hall, looking down directly to where her two sons stand head of the hall. 

Dirthamen is cloaked in shadow, his clothes dark and a cloak made of pitch black feathers that puts Nelaros' to shame. On each shoulder sits a black bird, beady eyes that look around the room alertly, and seem to gaze into her very soul when she catches one's glare. His hair, long and white, falls over his shoulders and stops at his chest in a perfect straightness that mirrors his posture. Beside him, tall and proud, is his brother. Falon'Din looks dressed for a funeral, in robes like death, sleeves that hang down to his knees. His face is almost obscured entirely behind a veil of translucent material, embroidered with patterns she cannot make out from here. The same hair of pure whiteness trails out from underneath, bringing some light to his ensemble. Their skin is hardly distinguishable against the darkness of their clothing, though their vallaslin is stark silver in comparison. Their people stand behind them, united in the same robes as the messengers to the Summer Court had donned, uniform and deathly silent. For a celebration, their hosts aren't the most cheery. 

There are other parties assembled already. She recognises the vallaslin of the God of Vengeance, Elgar'nan, in the faces of a group donning fiery robes, the most colourful out of any here. Their leader wears pauldrons made of golden metal that twist upwards higher than his head, and gauntlets and sabatons of matching material. His hair is twisted up around golden hair ornaments into a decorated ponytail of a deep ruby. Like many of his people, Elgar'nan wears his own vallaslin in a dark red against his chestnut skin. His eyes are sharp, the same beautiful golden as his wife's, though like hers, they feel unsettling to look into. 

Beside him stand who Ariwyn can only tell are June and Sylaise because of their vallaslin. They, unlike Elgar'nan and Mythal, stand together as husband and wife. They are not at all what she expected; despite their unity they seem distant, even to one another. Their gazes are cold as they survey them, the newcomers to the gathering. Both of them, as well as their people, are very pale, almost as white as ghosts, their eyes haunting and luminous against their dark surroundings. It is intimidating to look at them for very long. 

Then, on either side of the hall closest to them stand two more groups. Ghilan'nain is so beautiful to look at that Ariwyn believes her to be Mythal, for a moment. Olive skin in which a sky blue vallaslin is etched in delicate matters, eyes sweet and soft. Her cheeks are full and her brows gentle, with luscious curls if coppery hair wound around horns made of gold. They're shaped like those of a halla, Ariwyn realises, and is hit with a pang of homesickness. Her people could easily be mistaken for those in Mythal's party for their clothing style, yet if their dismissive glances say anything, they are not wont to be considered similar. 

Finally, Andruil's people. Strangely, the outfits they wear reminds her of home; furs and leathers, that appear handmade even, by a talented tailor or craftsman. They look comfortable and sturdy, perfect for a hunt, or long days on the road. Andruil stands at the head, hands on her hips and simply screaming with confidence; around her waist she wears a pelt of dark, thick fur like a sash, under which she wears black leathers. From her shoulders hangs a similar pelt, held on by pauldrons molded to look like the roaring heads of bears. She looks a little wild, eyes bright, yet she bears the same pale skin as her sister Sylaise. Her dark hair is disheveled, cropped short, hidden somewhat under a hood. She is flanked by a group of hunters, not many in her party. They all appear tall and strong, confident in their surroundings. One at the end, however, is smaller than the rest, looks uncomfortable, unsure. His arms are folded in an attempt to appear strong but he fidgets, dark eyes glancing around at the other parties in something akin to fear. His armour fits him well, a long pelt through over his shoulder and attached under a single leather pauldron. His jaw is strong, set tight as if his teeth are gritted. He doesn't look like he belongs, even in his own group. 

He looks… like  _ Seron _ ! 


End file.
